A Frankenstein by any other name
by Nuttynube
Summary: Victor's creature outlived him - the spark of false life breathed into him by his creator allowed him to carry on long after Victor perished on the ice. He survived and he flourished, gained a new appearence as years passed and took the name Sherlock, rejoining his family and seeking the one thing his creator could not give him. A soul. A soul which he finds in a certain Dr Watson.
1. Mycroft's journal

**Mycroft's Journal**

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The Holmes family, a family for which I am patriarch, lord and master, is a strange one. Strange in that - despite its elusiveness and indifference to the outside world and, indeed, Sherlock's life - it has produced possibly the most bizarre and extraordinary man that I have ever met. He is no doubt the most impossible one and I cannot imagine meeting anyone else who could be quite so remarkable.

He is a solitary man, a man who once seemed without a heart. And that is saying something coming from a man they call the 'Ice Man'. He has always seemed impossibly intelligent and so graceful and beautiful, even I, who sees him as a brother, cannot not deny that beauty. However, he does not seem to share that notion. He cannot see what, arguably, most people who cross his path are struck with like a bolt of lightening. He does not see the flirtatious smiles sent his way by pretty girls, and some boys, for that matter. Nor does he notice the instant respect and interest his aristocratic features earn him. All that he can see when he looks in the mirror is the same repulsive, scarred face that he was born with. Objectively, he can see that the physical imperfections are gone but the mental scars will never leave him.

Whenever I see him I cannot help but notice that the man looks as if he were crafted instead of born. Can I even call him a man? He seems to be akin to a god in many respects. His features are too sharp and defined to be born of a mortal woman, his body too carefully sculpted from lean whip-cord muscles and flawless alabaster, and his eyes sparkle with far, far too much knowledge. His top lip is as sharp as knives, as sharp as the words that tumble out; no doubt it would cut with just a kiss. He is a work of art, but born of science. Yes, he was beautiful now, but it had not always been so; it has taken many hard, painful years, filled with arduous work and research to make him into the masterpiece we see today.

For when I say that he looks as if he were crafted, the truth is that he _was indeed _crafted; he was born at the hand of a mad genius and breathes the artificial life given to him by a mortal god. Victor and Sherlock stand alone as gods on this Earth, the Unholy Duo who take their place in opposition of the Holy Trinity. There was only one thing the scientist could not grant the creature that finally drove him to his graves for his misdeeds, he could not grant him a soul. That spark of life was dull and lacking, as any artificial creature is, and there was only one man who could ever breathe real life into the beast. I knew that man was who we had waited for—who Sherlock had waited to find for nearly two hundred years—the second I saw him. We both saw through the plain and ordinary façade, right to the extraordinary man beneath the woollen jumpers. He was the one who could grant a soul when not even the genius creator could. But then Victor had never been the most _feeling_ of men. I suppose it is a trait passed down our family, since neither Sherlock nor I can boast a great amount of emotion or compassion. It is a great source of frustration for both of our partners.

But I am getting ahead of myself. I feel far more free to speak here in my private notes. In everyday life, I guard my secrets close to my chest, as my family taught me — hold your cards tight and only play them when it is to your advantage, I was told. Never play a card in the heart suit though. They are to be locked away at all times.

Perhaps I should tell you about my family. I doubt you will know much otherwise, since we are the most secretive bloodline of them all. You may know a small amount about them from their philanthropy, the charities they are patrons to and the businesses they own. Perhaps you've passed the magnificent - if small and slightly dilapidated by our usual standards - manor in countryside or the much larger estate in the Oxford, where I have for summer retreats. You may even know of the Holmes, née Frankenstein, Manor in Geneva. One thing you will certainly know about is 221B in Baker Street or else you wouldn't be here. However, I doubt you know much more about us than that. Most of the papers detailing our existence and dark past have now been tracked down and burnt. In fact, this is probably the only record on paper of Sherlock's story and, with him _gone_—at least for now—the duty falls to me to write some form of history. He will most likely burn it when, or rather if, he returns. It was after all him who destroyed all the original copies which detailed his existence.

But for now this is the only record. Everything else is gone. All to hide the "shameful" business that was Sherlock's involvement in our lives.

It all started in Ingolstadt, Germany, during the year of 1818. At the time, we were not the Holmes family. Instead, we lived under our true family name, the name of our ancestors going back for hundreds of years — a tradition killed by that horrible business. We went by the name Frankenstein but the generations coming after the events of those years, those who were sired by the youngest child of the magistrate - Alphonse Frankenstein - carried the surname Holmes instead.

Alphonse was an intelligent and caring man, if not entirely understanding of his eldest son and the work he was doing. In total, he had three sons and a niece in his household by Lake Geneva: Victor, Elizabeth, William and Ernest., I shall allow you to decipher which one was the niece and which of them were the sons.

Victor was the eldest, he later married the niece in a union which would—perhaps it could only—end in sorrow. William, the second youngest, died far before his time and not from the common childhood illnesses of the times. He died, instead, at the hand of what most would call a monster. I once shared that very sentiment, after hearing the horror stories I heard from my guardian. I was always terrified by the tales, I believed whole-heartedly that the creature was a terrible monster to be hated and shunned. Then I came to know the monster and how young William truly died. Now I feel only sympathy for the one who killed him.

Only Ernest, whose anonymity arguably saving his life, survived to carry on the Frankenstein name. Although, I suppose he did the exact opposite. He renounced the family name to save face, after Victor had brought shame and ridicule down upon it. Victor was driven mad, you see. He had carried out experiments, which some would say were ungodly, in the name of science; he created a creature that later drove him to the brink of insanity and then pushed him off the edge into the black abyss.

Although, some people claim that Victor never created a monster or its bride. Rather, they believe that it was a hallucination and that Victor killed young William, the beautiful girl in Scotland, and his wife in that same insanity. It would certainly take a mad man to walk through blizzards and Hell in search of a creature that no-else believed in, only to drop dead in the process. These acts of insanity brought nothing but shame to the Frankenstein name; so when their father died of grief and Ernest gained power as patriarch, he changed the family name to Holmes and ensured that his descendants would be respected once more. It was a painful decision for such a young man to have to make because he was forced to cut away the one thing that tied him to his family, and departed siblings, and to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders at just sixteen years old.

Not long after he married and had many children, one of whom would be involved in a scandal which would eventually lead to my branch of the family tree but that is a story for another time. All you need to know is that, many years later, I am writing this to you. Not much has changed since then; we still own our estates in Geneva and the little run-down manor house where Victor had studied whilst in England. We also own the large estate bought by Ernest, when he moved to England to escape his family's reputation. It was then that he met, fell for and married a nice local, girl called Mary Shelley - all in the space of just a few months. I am the last of the Frankenstein lineage except for one, who is arguably the true possessor of my titles and my ownership of all of the estate.

I know that many do not count Victor's creature as his son, or even a man, but he was after all created by Victor. His heart beat for Victor's, the creature loved Victor as a father, he was the scientist's pride and joy and it was that mad genius who breathed life into him. He was Victor's son — he would have inherited the family fortune and titles if it had been a more conventional conception. Victor might not have acknowledged it but that creature was his child to care for and to teach, though he sorely neglected the former duty. Victor should see him now — as the immortal wonder he has become, who is still going strong and growing more intelligent and more perfect as his scars heal. Perhaps the reluctant father would weep with joy and pride because his creation is perfect; maybe now he would see that he has created a real man and not the shadow of one that he had first looked upon. He might be proud for the wrong reasons, proud of his own accomplishments and genius rather than those of the creature, but at least he would be proud, as any father would and should be.

So there is an heir to the estate far more deserving than I: the child of the eldest son. However, Sherlock renounced his title as Victor's creature and son long ago, when he adopted the name he chose for himself. He had granted himself the luxury that Victor Frankenstein had never seen fit to give him, even at the end of his life, and Sherlock took his family's new surname. I suppose he wanted the family to accept him, but most of them never did, until me. I embraced him as my brother and signed every paper saying such. Now he is safe to live his life in peace and will never have to leave the side of the Holmes again. So while he might hate me and my interference, he will never turn me away because I love him as my brother and he is grateful to me for inviting him to be a member of his family. After all that waiting, he is finally part of Victor's family.

Well, until he jumps ship and joins the Watsons.

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**AN. This chapter was marvellously edited by Linebreaker, I've already learnt a lot and we've only done this chapter so far!**


	2. 1821 - The Far North

**1821 – The Far North**

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**The Creature POV**

"Come, father, it's not won't be much longer! Hurry, hurry, I feel it in my bones, our journey is almost complete." My father trailed behind me, sinking to his knees more times than was healthy, looking ready to give up at any second, his frozen legs buckling out from beneath him, all feeling lost in his frostbitten feet,

"And what is that journey now, then? We have been on this infernal journey for so long, where are we going? Where are you leading me? Tell me!" I couldn't help my laughter, taking his gloved and pulling him up and onwards, practically dancing onwards when I was sure he was following, gleeful that finally he was with me, alone and with his undivided attention on me, following me rather than me chasing after him,

"It is the same that it has always been, father!"

"Do not call me that!" He bellowed, his voice muffled by the battering of snow around us and the whip of cold air that struck our numb faces and tore the words away from our lips, lost in the white of the blizzard . I froze on the spot, although the cold had nothing to do with my sudden immobility, unlike Victor who looked like any second he would be nothing but an ice sculpture - frozen forever - as I watched him, little more than a figure in the unending white. He was being buffetted by the wind and I moved closer to see his face in the snowstorm,

"Why can I not call the man who gave me life my father? When all others can call the man they adore and look up to most in the world by that name, why do you continue to deny me?" He buckled now, the weight of the pack too much as his weary body pitched forward. I rushed to catch him, as I had so many times in the past few months, desperately pushing him back onto his feet. He was past caring now, I doubt he could really remember why he was still walking anymore, why he had started to follow me at all. His mind was going with the exhaustion and the lack of civilisation, every thought plucked from his mind and racing away on the freezing winds. Now only lingering bitterness and regret pushed him onwards, forced him to keep moving and to keep going when all he wanted was to collapse and die, not even knowing what he regretted anymore. He no longer sought to follow me so he could bring me to justice and to put an end to the beast he had created, he wished only to keep walking – for reasons long forgotten – after the only thing he had left, and away from the life he might have had and the family we ruined together.

I could hear the thickness of his voice, even though his face was hidden behind the hood that slipped forwards, I knew that - not for the first time - I had brought him to tears, as he had a moment of lucidity to remember what he had lost,

"Because I am not your father. My children would have been those born with Elizabeth, children which you have denied me-"

"I deny you no child, you have one already and you do not love me. Why would I allow you a perfect little family which would never have included me? Why would I allow you more children when you cannot love the one you have?" He was shaking now, as I knelt before him, our faces just inches apart so he could rest his hands on my shoulders, pushing himself up and whispering in a broken voice, the regret and apology stronger now than ever before,

"I am sorry for the pain I caused you. I should never have created you-"

"That is not what you should regret or apologise for. You should apologise for your actions after my birth, until then I was an innocent. You had as much of a hand in who I am, and the actions which have led to your downfall, as I did."

"I am sorry."

"You don't know what sorry is anymore. You say it just so I will leave you alone, to leave you to peace and death, rather than because you are actually apologetic. You're no longer the man I knew," I held him tighter as he almost slipped and fell to the ground from exhaustion, I could never be certain which fall would be his last, when he would no longer be able to get up, just as the others – Elizabeth, William and the old man and his family – had been unable. "You're not Victor anymore, you're just the shell of him. But if that means that I can have you here with me, that I can have your full attention if only for a short while, without any true hatred and violence, then that is a price I will make you pay. Goodness knows you could have saved a lot of pain for all of us if you had been more generous with that price sooner."

"I want to go home, creature." I frowned down at him, shouldering the job of pulling sledge of supplies because I knew he would not be able to keep going with it,

"You cannot go home, father, there is no home for you anymore. Your wife is dead and your son is here, this is where you must be."

"Then I will die."

"So be it. You are the one who chose to chase me-"

"Because you killed Elizabeth!"

"A wife for a wife, Victor. An evil prospect but then your neglect and mankind's abuse made me an evil person."

"You're not evil." I looked down at him in surprise,

"Why father, I do believe that's the kindest thing you have ever said to me."

"Consider it a parting gift, your inheritance because you will get nothing else out of me. My gift to you is the only kind words that I shall ever speak. If anyone is evil it is myself, I am the arrogant one. I thought that I might dance with the devil and walk away scot-free, I thought I could be a living God on Earth and my arrogance led to my come-uppance, you are right that this is where I belong. Forced to carry a heavy load, freezing and following my creature, having lost everything, in pain and exhausted. I deserve this for my pride, I dabbled in God's work and I failed. You are not the evil one, you are spiteful and bitter but you have every right. Do not allow those deaths to weigh upon your conscience – I have no right to blame you for them. I did not teach you otherwise; you were merely trying to gain some form of justice on an un-level playing field. Let me shoulder those guilts, when I die they shall go with me."

"They are ours to share, father."

"They should not be. I have done wrong to you, the world has done as many wrongs to you as you did to it," he smiled up at me and it was in that moment I knew the cold and the exhaustion and the guilt had driven him mad. But I didn't mind, we were mad together. Like father, like son. He patted my arm with all the – albeit pitiful – strength he could muster, "I hope, in the future, things can change for you… son."

I felt a small flicker of emotion then. I hated my father, almost as much as I loved him, I despised him for all that he did and how he had treated me. I hated being brought into a cruel, unfeeling world, where I was ridiculed for things out of my control and where I was damaged and hideous, when once upon a time I had been so full of joy and happiness at just being able to walk at my birth, at seeing my first sunrise and dancing in the rain, and rolling in the grass. All of my simple joys were taken from me by the cruel world. I hated him for bringing me into that… but I loved him, he was my father, and I felt a small flare of that as he finally gathered the courage to call me the one thing he had been so loathe to call me, in all my life, no matter how hard it was for him.

He was silent for a long time after that, as I carried his increasingly frail body in my arms, no longer even knowing where I was going but knowing that I could not stop yet. Soon after, I had to leave the supplies behind. There was nothing left but a flask of water, which I pocketed, two flints for lighting a fire, and a blanket, which I wrapped around him tenderly. There was no use wasting my energy lugging a huge sleigh just for those things. So I wrapped him up, tight as I could, and I carried him onwads, through the freezing night and the blisteringly cold days, through icy wind and blizzard, not noticing at first that he did not stir. He had stopped to rest many times, slept without seeming to even be breathing, it seemed no different.

It was on the third day, when I lay him down so that I could rest and fish under the ice, that I realised he had not stirred for days on end. I gently tried to feed him some of the fish I had caught, though it was raw because the winds extingushed the flames before I could even light them, and I poured water down his throat, desperately shaking him and calling out for him, tearful in my desperation, as I pleaded with him to stir. It was then that I pressed my own numbing fingers – although they had fared significantly better than his own frost bitten blackening digits - against his neck to feel for reassurance that he was alive. I received none. My father was gone.

Gone.

Leaving me alone with my horrible, horrible thoughts. Leaving me alone with the guilt that he had wanted to take with him. He had taken nothing of it. The only thing he took with him was my only companion, the only one left in my life, and he left me with only my wretched thoughts.

Alone.

I was so very alone. All alone in the world. Just as I had been at the start – when I woke and fought to find my feet without aid, no parent to watch with pride and to catch me when I fell, just crumbling to the ground and injuring myself over and over but bounding up in joy nonethess. But at least then, as alone as I had been in that darkened room after my 'birth', I had a thread leading me to another person, at least my creator was at the end of the tether and I knew he was there for me to return to - even if he would not welcome me with open arms. I let out a small, wretched moan, distress rising in me as I realised what had happened. He was dead. My father was dead, his life snatched by the ice and by his endless pursuit of my destruction. He had failed to destroy me and now he lay dead at my feet… just as they all did.

I never meant to kill them, at the start I didn't even realise that was what I was doing. Death was something that had given birth to me, my comprehension had not been that you went to sleep – sometimes more painfully than others – and never woke. I woke! I had woken from death so why did they not? As I had sifted through the ashen remains of the little house of my friend and his family, to find their charred bodies, I had shaken them desperately to wake them… I had asked myself, why did they not wake up? I hadn't understood that first time. I didn't even understand fully with William or with Elizabeth... now I did. Now it was Victor. The last who would die at my hand, I promised myself.

The second death had been an accident in every sense of the word. I had sought to burn down that house in vengeance but with William- I never meant to kill the boy. William was never supposed to die! He was just meant to be a message, he was _never_ meant to be a corpse. I took him to the mountains to speak to him, that was all, because I desperately wanted to speak to my father. Just as I did now, I just wanted to talk to Victor, because I didn't want to be alone anymore. And I wanted a friend, I had been so hopeful – before William saw me, when he had his back to me but would talk to me– because I thought he was to be my friend. I never meant to hold him so tight, to shake so hard, I didn't know my strength, it was an accident... I just wanted a friend. Because my only other friend was gone, burnt to a cinder in a fire that I had started. I was a fool. An angry, impulsive fool. I thought they were out in the fields and in my rage I had burnt it down, as revenge, I didn't know they were there. And I didn't know there would be no coming back from the fire.

Even as Victor lay dead at my feet I never quite understood, not for the whole time, not until the very end did I realise that he just couldn't come back. I had been born from dead bodies, resurrected and woken from the dead… why could he not be woken? Why did he lie cold and frozen, preserved in the ice, whilst I lived on? Why did the monster survive over one of God's creatures? Over my father? Could I even die? I doubted it, I had yet to be finished off by starvation, cold, thirst or exhaustion. I sat by his body for many years, decades even, with no comprehesion of time, just knowing I had to stay and to think on my misdeeds and guard him; in the end I was just a wretched shivering mess cowering next to him, great purple bags beneath my eyes and my disfigured skin as pale as the snow around me, but I simply lived on. I never died. Would I ever be reunited with my father?

No… because, for all his misdeeds, Victor was a son of God. He would go to Heaven. I would not, not for what I was and for what I had done. I would never walk hand in hand with their God, in his gardens, so I would never walk with my own father, my own God. If I died then I would go to Hell for all eternity, to be thrust from Paradise, and if I did not die and go to my eternal damnation, then I would be forced to remain in my hell on Earth. I would never go to Heaven, that was for those with souls and – unfortunately – my father seemed to have neglected to give me one, because souls are born from the love between a man and a women, a gift to them from God, they did not come from the love of electricity for cold dead flesh that it animated, like the power that had coursed through my muscles and brought me to life. I knew I did not have that oh-so-coveted soul because I claimed to understand love and family and emotions but I did terrible things just as easily as I fell in love, maybe my feelings were not real. So maybe they could be pushed away. I did not have emotions, not really, because monsters don't. And I am a monster.

They died at my hand – I had stolen the precious life given by God. I cannot be redeemed, I may never repent and be forgiven because I am a murderer. I had killed real men and women, the children of God – unlike me, the only one on Earth that had not been created by him, in his own image. I am not his child, I am Victor's but I was not the Adam loved by his God, I was not made in his image. I was made in the image of rotting corpses lying in their graves, corpses which should never have been disturbed. Victor turned those people into a new creature, into me, and in doing so he disrespected their peace and their wishes, he made a monster. Not a man. And that monster killed his brother; I killed poor little William, I was just so angry that he wanted to go back, another person leaving me and running away in fear… I didn't realise I was holding him so tight, honestly, I didn't mean to squeeze the life from him.

And worse, worse than anything I would ever do, I hurt dear, sweet Elizabeth, deliberately and in full conscience knowing what I was doing – the only one to show me pity and compassion upon seeing my scars and I had hurt her. I had been heartbroken over my own bride's death, angered and left unable to love another. That love had felt so real, so warm and so perfect after years of loneliness and hatred, so beautiful and such a welcome change. It had ended as suddenly as her life and I felt the love being clawed out of my chest, anger choosing to fill the void. I was so angry with him for killing my bride that I went to see Elizabeth. Perhaps if I had come across her sooner I would have reciprocated her sympathy and kindness, perhaps she would have changed things. She might have cared, she could have been the one to reunite me with my father, she could have been the mother to Victor's father and given me siblings to love and be loved by… but I never gave her the chance. I was just so angry and hurt. I took her innocence and caused her pain, to spite Victor… and in doing so I destroyed her. It was only ever aimed at Victor, she was just an innocent bystander that got caught in the crossfire.

I wish I had known how much it would hurt her, no-one told me what to expect when you touch a woman like that – and certainly not when you force yourself upon her as I had. I had horded snippets of what they called the facts of life, for what I later did with Elizabeth, whilst learning with the old blind men but he was old and modest, he never told me more than the very basics. And so, I had gone to her with ignorance and scorn for Victor, and I had done to her something that only her lover or husband should, never understanding how sacred nor how damaging it was to her.

Never again.

Never again would I do that with anyone. Even if I opened my heart and loved again, I would never do that – it had been too horrible, I could never grant myself that carnal sin again. Not after what had happened. Even through the brief glimpse of pleasure I held felt, holding her in a way a lover would, I had known how horrific, how _wrong,_ it was. I could never see beauty in the act again, not after seeing such ugliness, it was burnt into my very skin. I had been brutal and she would have been damaged for life, in that second I knew she would carry those memories and those emotional scars for life. And so, seeing the pain and disgust in her eyes, I had ended her life and her suffering. Putting her out of her misery as you would a wounded or crippled animal, snapping her neck so quickly that her pain would be over, even as Victor cried out for me to stop. It was _his _fault. Why did I still love him after what he made me?! WHY?! AFTER HE LEFT ME ALONE, AFTER HE HATED ME AND NEGLECTED ME, AND KILLED MY BRIDE? _Why did I still love him?_

Those memories and that bitterness towards Victor's body had cycled round and round and round in my head. They never let me be. As I stared at the body with contempt for all he had done and then, before he could make amends, he had died, the greatest injustice of them all, and left me alone with my terrible memories. I managed to stretch just three short years of life and memory and misdeeds so that I might dwell on them for years to come, to fill my decades of solitude and exile, as I sat guard over Victor's body. I never left my father's side, I didn't know how to. What came next? What was I supposed to do? It took me over twenty years, but finally I had an answer. And my time came to return to the real world.


	3. 1845 - Return to civilisation

**AN: New content below! What happened between Victor's death and the creature's return to humanity? Well, you'll have to read and find out!**

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**1845 – A return to civilisation**

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It was just another day. Nothing was different – at least not noticeably. It was still freezing, the only thing I could see was still the endless expanse of empty white, just snow and ice, occasionally something moving in the distance, a bear or a wolf in search of meat. I edged a bit closer to Victor when that happened, although short of pulling him onto my lap there was little more I do be closer to him. I hadn't moved my limbs properly for almost twenty years, I had long ago given up walking around... I gave up. I just sat, waiting - hoping even - for the release of death. I simply retreated into my head, into the flickering reel of memories that played over and over in my head, plaguing me as I sat staring ahead and the snow accumulated around me, slowly covering Victor until his greying skin disappeared, preserving him around my fingertips. I probably looked as if I was another corpse - a mass of frozen, pale skin than never moved, never blinked and breathed in the shallowest of breaths, just staring ahead with glassy eyes. I hadn't felt anything lower than my neck for a few years, I hadn't needed to, I didn't move even though my limbs were dead and even though my body ached for food - burnt with the hunger - and drink and desperately wanted to sleep. The only times I did sleep was when I slipped into the occasional upright slumber, when I could no longer stave away the depths of sleep.

I didn't want to sleep. At first it was the fear that I might not wake up, I might go the same way as my father and just never wake, but then it was the fear of my own mind that kept me awake... the fear that the dreams would return. Although, perhaps the term nightmare was more probably more apt. Memories haunted my every waking moment but they were even worse in my sleep; when I didn't see the good times mixed in with the bad. At least when I was awake, if I was spiralling into despair I could at least pull myself up slightly with more pleasant thought. I could recall the love I had felt for my bride, I could remember her beautiful face, I could dream about the feeling of that first sunrise and the grass beneath my feet, the first birds to fly, the feeling of running for the first time... and I could remember the fleeting kindness Elizabeth had shown me. My unconcious mind did not dwell on such things, it showed me only heartwrenching memories filled with grief and regret; I head the screams of dying people, I saw people running from me in fear and calling my a monster, I saw the flames as the house burnt down along with my only friend, I saw the contorted faces of those I disgusted so deeply. I dwelled upon the look of desperate agony and humiliation on Elizabeth's traumatised face as I held her down, as I reached out to kill her and I recalled that first moment when I knew I was to be hated for my life, when I first saw Victor's fear. It was in that moment, as he ran from me, I knew I was different... as I first reached out for him, a newborn with all of the innocence and good intentions in the world, and I received only disgust. It was the bedding of it all. I saw everything of our meetings until the final and longest meeting. The one that ended with him lying lead at my feet.

I wanted to go back, I wanted it so hard it tore at my chest and bubbled like acid in my stomach. I wished – more than anything - that I hadn't frightened him away, that I hadn't reached out. If I'd waited slowly, drifted into consciousness and been obedient - instead of startling him with my, I will admit, terrifying flailing performance - perhaps he would have gradually learnt to care for me, he would have taken looked after me, taught me, maybe even loved me. He had been close when he died - or at least he had been the furthest from hating me that he had ever been - but he could never love me now, he was dead.

And that realisation may just have been what sparked it. The hundredth - no perhaps thousandth - time that I thought it and finally i registered. He was dead. He wasn't coming back. I could guard him forever and wait for him but he would _never _get up. And that's what finally clicked in my brain, and my mind was made up. Finally, after all that time, I moved. Fire danced up my arm, a jolting pain racing along my neglected muscles after all that time of being held in the same stiff position, as I reached out a hand and – in one final desperate attempt – began to shake his shoulder, feeling the wastage in the slowly decomposing, immobile frozen limb beneath my fingertips. I let out a high pitched, hoarse whine in the back of my paper dry throat, like a dog as it nudged its fallen master. He did not wake. It had finally it clicked in my mind. It was finally making sense, why hadn't I realised before? It was so blindingly obvious, any idiot would realise in a second whereas it took me two decades to come to terms with it. He would never wake… he could never wake. He wasn't like me. He had perished, whilst I survived. Perchance, he was the inferior one. After all, I had survived everything whilst he perished, I grew stronger even in the cold, my Genius was to be immortal. I would survive and in me his genius lived and grew into my own and, with all the time I would have to live and study, it would grow to be far greater.

So, finally, I pushed myself upwards, determined to leave this place and take advantage of forever. I wasn't going to guard him until the end of time, I was going to do everything Victor would have never had the time to accomplish. I was going to leave. Now. But saying that, it wasn't an immediate thing. After sitting still for so long, it was a slow and painful process, unfurling my impossibly cold, out of use limbs, I did not feel the same joyful accomplishment when I regained use of my limbs as I had when I first leapt about, exploring the world and using my legs for the first time. But I felt a cool pride when I managed to finally work myself upright, as clumsy as I had been upon my birth but managing it finally, standing over my creator and still receiving no response from the frozen corpse.

I don't know what had triggered it but suddenly I knew I could not stay, he wasn't coming back, he was dead and soon he would be buried once more under the snow. It felt to me like only a day had passed since my self-imposed solitude, my isolation from the normal people, but in reality I knew it to have been 24 years, or I would know it very soon – when I went back to civilisation and calendars.

It had taken me some time to get the feeling back into my legs and the cramps in my muscle felt like I was being stabbed by a sharp knife which had been held into a flame and slashed across my skin a thousand times over, but I forced myself to move, to carry on through the pain and tiredness. If I stopped then I would not keep going, I would give up and I would stay there forever. The end of the world would come and I would still be there, the loyal dog waiting at its master's side long after he had rotted away into the ground. I only allowed myself one last look back, as Victor's body became nothing but a dark spot on the horizon, the last thing left of my only family,

"I'm sorry for everything, father, rest in peace."

It took me months of walking, it was less time than my arrival in the North – for I did not have my exhausted creator dragging behind, slowing me down as I bounded ahead - although my own pace was far decreased. I no longer leapt and bounced around, quick and agile in my movements, although occasionally as clumsy as child. Instead, I was slow and plodding, broken down by pain and tiredness, dragging out my return to the world that would hate me so very, very much. I felt that old familiar ache bubble up in my chest as I saw the first houses, the outline of people in the distance. I longed so deeply for them to show me kindness, to find a friend, someone who wasn't driven by pity to take me under their wing and someone who wouldn't recoil upon seeing me, to find someone who saw me as a person and judged me as such, and chose to befriend me for that, not my face.

Seeing the beautiful women that walked about the villages I passed through, I thought of my bride and of the feeling that had haunted me since Elizabeth, the caress of skin upon skin, the feeling of touching someone like a lover and wrapping yourself up in their heady, unique scent and pressing kisses to the plump, strawberry lips of a beautiful woman. My heart yearned for the next woman on the path to be the one of love me, to be the one to take me. Instead they disappeared into their houses with a shriek or a gasp, calling for their husbands and fathers and brothers to rid them of the beast. I was always gone before they returned with the man, carrying on in my search for someone… anyone.

Sometimes, as I walked through the villages, they would not go into their houses in fear, upon seeing the monster walk through their midst, but instead they threw stones or called out names, some even ran after me and chased me from the village with pitchforks and flames. I did not stop to fight them, though that did not stop the boiling rage and desperate sadness at their rejection. I no longer fought, I kept it inside, impassive and free of the burdens of emotion. I would never defend myself from a reaction that any human would have, I was a freak. It was who I was. There was no use fighting it, people only got hurt. Victor would be the last death to weigh on my conscience, I would hurt no more and kill no more. I would simply observe the world, I would no longer try to be involved and punish it when things did not go my way because they never would. I was doomed to an eternity of loneliness, of being friendless and loveless, of stealing bread from windowsills to quell the hunger which was no unbearable in the radius of food (it is something quite different to deny yourself when there is nothing to be head, rather than when food is in your grasp). No I would not punish them for my lot in life, they were not to blame... only Victor and myself were at fault and he was gone now. I had no-one left to blame but myself.

Finally, months after I left my exile, I reached their new home in Geneva. I did not break in in the middle of the night, I was passed that now, I would never impose my presence on that poor family again. I simply left a note and hoped they would accept,

_Ernest,_

_I hear you are now master of the Frankenstein House. I beg of you just an hour of your time, so that I might see what has become of my family – though I doubt you will consider me part of it. But then I will leave, I will leave and never return._

_One meeting is all I ask, in return for a lifetime of freedom for yourself and your family._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Victor's Creature_

He had thought it a cruel joke at first, he thought someone was taunting his mentally unstable genius of a brother, as many had before. Everyone knew, they were the gossip of the world – society was alight with the news of the misfortune that had befallen the Frankensteins, as the news was told to the world in every paper. He had to change their name to regain their respect and so that the parties and dinners he attended would not instantly go silent in his presence, upon hearing his name, before being filled with the incessant sniping of people who pitied him or loathed his murderous brother, who had thought himself above men. A man who had tried to played God and brought his family to ruin.

He would not receive me for a long time. But then something changed. I do not know what, even to this day. But suddenly there was a note being handed to me by a terrified messenger, trembling outside my lodgings.

I had an appointment. To try to make peace, one last attempt at acceptance or forgiveness for my family. Then I could move on.

One last try.


	4. 1845 - Ernest and England

**AN. COMPLETELY NEW CONTENT BELOW**

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**1845 – England and Ernest**

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**The Creature's POV**

It was a dark and dreary day on which Ernest agreed to meet me – I suppose the weather was rather fitting for the occasion. It was a beautiful house, seventeenth century, lavish and pristine, well looked after by its army of servants and maids, majestic from the front and luxury on the inside. I felt distinctly out of place walking up the perfect walkway, past immaculate hedges and flawless roses; I felt like an ugly spot on a perfect canvas, a dark mark the artist couldn't quite scrub out, with my scars and my dirty clothes, filthy from head to toe from my living arrangements. I had been sleeping in abandoned lodgings in an old barn's hayloft, with only a few coins to my name. Everyone was rather reluctant to hire me so I could not afford to rent proper accommodation, so instead I slept on an old stolen mattress, wrapped in the old burlap sacks - which had once held the grain from the harvest - but I could have been worse off. At least I wasn't starving and sick, unlike some of the street children and the poor widows and old men and women who littered the streets. I'd invited some children to take shelter in the barn but I had only scared them away. It was a cold and lonely place but it was the best I was going to get. I had somewhere to hide, a place to call home where I didn't freeze, which put a roof over my head on rainy days. It was better than before – when I lived in the forests, sleeping in ditches and burying my way into the undergrowth to keep warm.

I brushed myself down slightly, trying to remove the lingering stains and clinging dust but knowing that two decades without cleaning meant there was no chance to redeem the tattered rags. I sighed, it was too late to do anything else. I was here to talk to Ernest as his brother's creature, not to have dinner as a well to do guest, I didn't want to surprise him too much. I approached from the back of the house, knowing the door would lead into the servant's quarters - since the front door would be manned by footmen and someone would be bound to notice me coming in. I might have been an invited guest but that didn't mean I wanted to waltz in like a family friend or an important visitor. I was not part of their world, I had to keep reminding myself of that. Thankfully, none of them noticed me slipping through their midst - at least I assume so, since there were no screams - and along the hallway past where they were panicking in the kitchens, and too preoccupied with preparing dinner for their employers. I shook my head, feeling sympathy for them. Trapped in the class system; a life into which which you were born a servant, into the bottom rung of the class ladder, where you died a servant, after years of back breaking hard work, with little hope of escape. They were as trapped in their lives as I was… but at least they were trapped together, at least they married and had family and friends to keep them company. They were all of the same kind, all servants together. I was the only one of my kind... it made me ache for my bride once more, as I slipped through the shadows and towards the stairs.

The house hustled and bustled with a level of activity, of life and excitement, that I wasn't used to. I avoided large crowds, I hid away to protect myself but now I had people moving all around me, running up and down stairs, dashing through corridors and shouting over each other in the kitchens. I only narrowly avoided being caught on more than a few occasions, ducking behind corners or into gaps in the walls or behind curtains, always lurking in the shadow - I was accustomed to it. I could walk the whole earth and never be seen even once if I so wished, it was how I survived. Even if I resented every hiding place and ever person that forced me to use it. It was slow progress and at one point a maid had jumped out of her skin upon seeing the movement in her peripheral vision, turning her head just in time to see me watching her in curiosity. Humans fascinated me in a way I doubted they would understand. To them, working and interacting - all of it - was just a part of every day life... it was ordinary, which made it so extraordinary to me. I had been denied the chance to ever be part of it, their lives were whole worlds apart from mine. Just a miniscule thing like a friendly conversation in passing was something I had never experienced, even the most mundane things were fascinating.

The dinner bell rang and the corridors were emptying, the servants filing out and carrying food to the dining room, where the family waited. I seized the opportunity to sneak into the front hall and hide myself in the shadows outside the library, tucked beneath a tapestry and a dark corner. You would have to be looking at exactly the right angle, and hopefully the master of the house would be the only one to stand in that particular spot. They must have all retired to the library after their dinner because I heard the noise of the family entering through the doors on the other side of the room, and the gentle din of familial conversation - another thing I had never experienced. I listened, enraptured by the sound of the compassionate, affection filled tones of their mother, lightly chiding one of the younger siblings for misbehaviour. I heard the deep strict voice of the father and then the uproarious, body shaking laughter of a joke only a father would make and only a father could appreciate, as the rest of the family just shook their heard in embarassment or bemusement. The children's light, tinkling laughter carried out of the room the best, as they bathed in the glow of a loving, happy family, though there was the distinct noise of squabbling at points and shrill sibling rivalries made themselves known. I briefly felt a jealous twinge as I thought of having siblings, of having unconditional love and companionship. Siblings were created to be playthings and friends for the eldest child, but they were the better than any friend. There was nothing quite like the bond of a sibling, the friendship forged and forever marked right into your core, engraved on your hearts and bones and drifting within your shared blood.

I must have waited for an hour, smiling fondly as I listened to the sound of my family, before they were drowned out by the grandfather clock's chime, telling Ernest that it was the time when I was expected. I retreated further behind the curtain when I heard them approaching, being ushered out by Ernest. They ranged from the eldest, a strapping fourteen year old boy who would be the opitome of his father with his tousled reddish curls and strong jaw, to the youngest, just a month old babe in its mother's arms. All but the two males had heads of shiny dark hair like their pretty young mother, Mary, whose hand Ernest before watching her usher their five children away in a line. I got the impression that this happened regularly - that the children were brought down to dinner and to then to see their father in the library before bed - and subsequently they'd gotten it down to a routine. He smiled as he watched her go, looking like a love-struck teenager. The eldest boy lingered for a second, his father resting a hand on his shoulder and smiling, looking so damn proud of his boy. I couldn't help the return of that cold stab of jealousy, twisting my gut when I saw that look. I had never received that look in my life - certainly not from Victor. I had seen from afar how Ernest was with his son – named Alphonse after his heartbroken grandfather – and how the boy was lavished with gifts and love and attention. My father never treated me like that. Perhaps, if he had, things would have turned out differently. I might have been as sweet, innocent and kind, loving even, as the day I was born and first looked upon my father. I would never have hurt him and our family, and it would have been Victor and Elizabeth playing with their five – probably more - children. Elizabeth looked like the sort of woman to want a large family and I would have been all too eager, loving my younger siblings, caring for them and playing with them. But it was too late for that.

The son smiled once more up at his father, before turning and following his siblings and mother, leaving his father alone at the library door, his face surprisingly unguarded. It struck me in that second just how _young _he truly was. Only thirty years old and already the master of an estate and father to five , soon to be six by the looks of it. They were too young. But then, life was hard on all of us, not just me and not just our family. Civilisation had changed and become as harsh and cold as I felt inside; the cold cruel times of men, reflecting the hardening in my own heart when I had come to England to find what had become of the Frankensteins, a family which had only just begun to slowly rebuild twenty years after I ripped it apart. I didn't entirely like what I was seeing; he looked tired and old, although I was glad he had a loving family, at least he had _some _family left after my unwitting massacre. At least he was no longer the only one left alive.

He was no longer the six year old boy I remembered vaguely and he was no longer a Frankenstein; all ties between him and his past family - and me in particular - had been completely and utterly severed. He had been ruthless in that change of identification and that seize of control, to save face and himself, and he had grown too fast in the process. He had the haggard and tired appearance of someone in their late twenties who had been dressed in his father's suit and forced to play grown up until he exhausted and just wanted to go to bed, only to be told he had to keep the suit on for the rest of his life because the time to play had been snatched when he wasn't looking.

He pivoted smartly on perfectly polished shoes, intending to go back into the library to await my arrival before something caught his eye, as he stepped into the position. He leapt about a foot into the air, recoiling back with his eyes wide and his breath coming in terrified gasps, clutching his chest, as he shouted in irritation,

"My God, man! What are you doing hiding there? Get out here right away."

"As you wish." His hand shot out, realising who I was apparently from just the sound of my voice and my silhouette,

"No, stay there you- y_ou_ monster! I know your voice… you are that thing, the thing that murdered my brother. I heard you talking to him; thirty years on and I still remember your damn voice."

"I'm flattered."

"It is not something easily forgotten. The voice of the man who destroyed your family and your childhood, I have never and will never forget you - for so long as I live."

"I can't say I can return the favour, I think I only caught a glimpse of you once- and you have changed much from that single glimpse."

"I was a sickly child, I cannot say they expected me to live a long life, I was sheltered… it all seems rather irrelevant now that I have gone and outlived them all."

"I'm curious… how do you recognise my voice then? I only saw you from a distance, when did you hear my voice?"

"I went down to the lake to try and find William, I wanted to join in with their game. I heard you before I saw you, I thought you had a magnificent voice… deep, velvety – I thought it was the voice of a lord or a prince, I never expected it to belong to a murderer."

"No, nor did I. I mean, I never expected my life to go that way."

"Then you were talking to William - saying that you wanted to play with him - I came forwards, I wanted to go and play in the mountains, I saw you but I didn't care what you looked like. William screamed but I just wanted to be friends, you didn't notice me. Nobody ever noticed me then. And look where that's gotten me now, being invisible really is a superpower, it has made me into Lord Ernest Holmes."

"What happened to your father?"

"What do you think happened to him? He died of a broken heart. He lost his son and the woman he saw as a daughter in the space of just a couple of years and then his eldest went mad, killed a girl in Scotland and ran off into the mountains ranting about a beast he had created. Everyone thought him insane, they sent search parties to bring him back – so he would not endanger the lives of others – so he could be locked away. They never found him. I knew it was your doing."

"I did not kill him."

"That would make a change. The murderer did not commit the murder? How very unlikely."

"I did not kill him! He was my father, he gave me life, and I would never have murdered him, no matter the injustices I suffered because of him."

"Then where exactly is he? If you did not kill him then why is he not here? I have been fulfilling his role for over twenty years. You have caused so much pain to this family, so much death, and you stole my childhood!"

"And I am sorry, that is why I am here. To apologise to you, face to face, for everything that I did. I have the death of four of my kin on my hands, and more, I accept full responsibility. I am here for that reason alone, for punishment. Whatever you wish to do with me… I will accept any punishment you see fit."

"Come out of the shadows and talk to me properly, let me see my brother's handiwork."

"I have not changed in thirty years, Ernest, I am as hideous as I ever was-"

"I did not care then, why the hell would I start now? Scars do not affect me, perhaps I am the only one of the family that is unaffected by your looks – things may have been very different if you met me rather than William. I do not care about your scars, it is your actions that anger me."

I nodded, it was perhaps the fairest judgement to have ever been passed. Oh to be judged on my person rather than my face… I cannot say my person and my actions hold up much better, or were much less gruesome, but at least someone was seeing something other than my looks. I was more than scars, I was a creature beneath it – I had feelings, even if I had come to dampen them, to push them down.

I stopped out and instantly, in reaction, the man took a step back, drawing in a shocked breath and muttering under his breath, still caught off guard even though he had known what to expect,

"My God."

"It is as you remembered?"

"Yes, and more. I only ever saw you from a distance before but yes... but now I see just how, human you look in everything except the scars. Take them away and you would pass unobserved amongst a crowd, a civilised creature. Victor was truly a genius."

"A genius and a fool. Yes he created me, yes he crafted me and brought me to life – all very admirable things and all the actions of genius – but he failed to take into account that I would have feelings, that the scars would affect me forever, that I needed to be taught and cared for. My vengeance comes entirely from his abandonment, and for that he is an idiot. He should never have brought me to life, given me an existence filled with pain and suffering and loneliness, snatching my only hope to have a female of my kind, and hating me. For that, he is a fool."

"But the man was a genius, it was all he had left in the end. And now that he is gone, you are all that remains of that very genius, a living breathing reminder on this Earth."

"Then judge me. Do what you will. I will suffer a thousand deaths over if I could redeemed myself in the eyes of my family."

"Leave. That is all I ask. You are a danger, an impossible threat and a mad-man, I cannot have you defile my family name again and I will not have you near my family. You may have turned over a new leaf, ended the murders, but that is not a risk I am willing to take. You will leave now and you will never again seek us out, I leave you alive purely in memory of my brother's genius and his tragedy but you are to be left to your own devices from here on. Now get out, and do not let my family see you on the way out, the children and young and easily startled." I bowed my head slightly,

"Of course, my lord, and might I say… you are a very just man, thank you for judging me on my actions over my looks."

"You are welcome. But set foot on my land again and I will personally skin you alive, you have caused enough deaths to the Frankensteins - you will not start on the Holmes family."

"Goodbye Ernest."

"Goodbye Creature, I wish things could have been different," he held out a hand and I gladly accepted, "we could have been good friends."

"I imagine we could have, but there is no use turning back. I have dug my own grave, now I will willingly lie in it. Goodbye." He nodded one last time as I walked away, seeing myself out and sneaking back down to the servant's quarters.

One thing stopped me however, something I had not noticed on my way in. A large mirror hung on the wall of the hallway, and with the gas lamps on now I could see myself illuminated on its reflective surface, frozen as I looked into it wide eyed. I took small, shaky steps closer until I was able to see myself properly, my mouth falling open in shock as I saw myself for the first time in twenty years. The changes were hardly noticeable to anyone else but to someone who had once studied their face for hours on end, finding every flaw and desperately pleading to God that they would heal, I knew my face like I did my mind. I saw even the most minute change and they absolutely flawed me.

The scars still covered about eighty per cent of my face; but they were not exactly as I remembered. The large ugly sutures and the thick, black thread remained, reminding me of Victor's gleeful boasting on the mountain on the day of Victor's death, and just as he had said they were healing well - even more so now. Much better than I had ever imagined, in fact. The skin was no longer quite the same hideous scarlet, now they looked as if the scars were burnt into my skin rather than being the results of the skin being pulled together to form my face. The scar tissue was slowly lightening to a rosy pink and purple, no longer raised quite so violently, as the edges retracted slightly and the shallowest parts become nothing but a healing white on similarly coloued pale skin. My face was still dominated by the red disfigurement but I could just about see the actual structure beneath it, the pale skin and the sharp catlike eyes, the angular cheekbones and the small grin that graced my split lips.

I was healing. It wasn't much but it was more than I could have ever hoped for. I was getting better, coming more to life, with every year that passed. Maybe one day I would walk amongst men and they would see more to me than ugliness. Maybe I might, one day, fit in… it had never been a prospect that had even occurred to me, I never thought I might heal. I had never dared to dream... and suddenly I had hope.

But there it was.

The first step.

One day; after all, I had all of an immortal life to wait.

I had time.

I would heal.


	5. 1846 - A stay in Oxford

**AN. More entirely new content! Hurrah!... (or not so much, depends on whether you like the story)**

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**1846 – Oxford**

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**Creature POV**

By the morning I was long gone. I had a small amount of money, which I'd earned by working the field for some slightly less prejudiced locals – well, they weren't really less prejudiced… simply more lenient towards me. They merely realised that I was willing to work for a pittance and, since the abolition of slavery a few years prior, I was the cheapest they could get. Greed won out over disgust and fear in the end, as it always did with men.

I went to Oxford, where I had been conceived as I thought in Victor's genius of a Brain, and I headed to the grand – although small – house that Victor had been given by his father, during his days of university and study away from his home in Geneva. The home would, presumably, belong to Ernest now - as the next of kin - but it was filled with dust, unoccupied and uncared for, the furniture was covered with huge white sheets, clearly having remained empty since Victor's death. The family had forgotten about the house, moved on and left it behind. They had neglected and abandoned it because it was not pretty enough, because it was unimpressive and not worth their attention, in that way it both reflected and perfectly suited me. I would care for it over the next few years, turn it into my home and spend nearly every waking minute there.

When I first returned, I walked around the rooms and found evidence of my father everywhere I looked. I remembered that this was where he lived when he'd researched and drawn up the plans for my creation, before going to Ingolstadt to hide away - and where people had volunteered to find him body parts - and then he'd come here again, before heading to Scotland, to repeat the process. He had intended to return to it soon after his departure I assume, perhaps using it as a stop off between Scotland and home and so he did not need to take everything with him up north, so his possessions were still littering many of the surfaces. I suppose he had been unable to return after the incident in Scotland, simply going straight to Geneva in his rush to marry Elizabeth and save her from me. He had not succeeded. I shook myself from those thoughts, wandering along the corridors and focusing on the things I found, that reminded me of my creator. Most of his teacups were still filled with half drunk tea - apparently he was easily distracted and never finished cups, an intimate fact I liked to know to feel closer to the man who had been my father and a stranger in one. The china was now stained to a point where I was certain they would be discoloured no matter what, deserted where they sat. His bed was unmade, the covers completely thrown off - as if he had had a sudden brain wave and rushed to the desk across from him to scribble in the notepad, clearly kept there for that purpose - and his clothes still in the drawers, carefully ironed by a maid who was long ago gone. Although, judging by the slight difference in the thickness of the dust, leaving rings where the china and the candlebras and various other expensive objects had sat, she'd come back to steal the silver - using her key to get in - when she'd realised he wasn't coming back.

I didn't mind the mess and the ruin. The near squalid, dusty remains of the house were what I deserved, and what I was comfortable with. And hopefully it would mean I would remain undisturbed. I did make one large change other than some dusting and cleaning, I went about and picked up all of the scrawled and scribbled on pieces of paper, all the half drawn sketches and the frenzied sheets of scrunched script - where he had been running out of paper and writing by candlelight, needing to scrunch up his writing but getting messier because he couldn't see properly in the half light. I picked every single thing he'd every written, discounting the fairly impersonal half written letters home. The letters I found from his family, I tied together neatly in a tidy pile and wrapped in a leather cover to keep them safe. I'd never leave them behind, Victor might not have been close to his family - the lack of his response to them indicated that - but they were a reminder of a better time, before I ruined it all, and it only seemed right that the family be remembered when it was whole, and that their love for each other was remembered more than the hatred between Victor and I that ripped them apart.

It had taken a few weeks but slowly I had compiled all of his work into a seperate leather bound folder, containing the details of every single note left from the time leading up to my creation, alongside the original book left with me in the cloak Victor had thrown over me. Alphonse had taken half of the book of his notes and diagrams after the incident in Scotland, with the intention of burning it but I had managed to salvage half of them before their destruction. Slowly, by taking the notes that littered various desks or were stuffed into gaps to hide from the servants or pinned to the walls or held between the pages of books he was studying from, I had compiled his work. It was incomplete, but with study and the meticulous care that came from a deep yearning to solve myself, and the calm careful study of a man who had forever, I was able to pick up on little mistakes he had made and learn his process, even improving it, and studying how I had been created and slowly making progress on synthesising various chemical solutions for scar treatment. It was slow work however and the only thing I had to show for it physically after two years was a soft, light and fly-away fuzz of hair, from the first medication I synthesised. It worked to activate the hair follicles into the skin… although it didn't look particularly attractive and the dusting of curls was a multitude of clashing, dull colours. From Victor's notes I knew that although my skin and my face had been mostly made up from two – very similar looking – people, who had donated most of my internal organs, the skin on their scalps had been rotting so badly he'd needed to pick them apart and knit a whole new area, mixed in with skin from other people, so patches of hair grew though in blondes, browns, reds and blacks, making a crude and ugly palette of colours.

Essentially, what I am saying is that I was no less freakish than ever – the slight healing of my scars, in a direction away from monstrous, was cancelled out by the ugly scraggy curls, making me no less appalling to the Victorians, who I found to be a cruel and unfeeling people. They saw through the stolen clothes and hats I wore, to try to appear to be one of them, and to the disfigurement beneath, jeering and sneering behind their gloved hands. The women tittered or fainted upon seeing my face and the men called out names after me in the street or threatened me. But I only saw them when I was restless for movement and fresh air, which wasn't often. I could handle it. On more than one occasion I was foolish, I ventured too far from my home and no hotel or lodgings would take me in. In those times I was forced to sleep in the gutter, as people walked passed and kicked me. Two policemen even threw me into prison for the night, until I could escape, just for being an ugly vagrant on the street, adding in a few kicks to make me "even more disgusting" as they put it.

In the end I would stay for only two years in my father's home, despite my intention to spend the rest of my life there studying and solving myself.

I had been visting London for a few days, and staying in a small room over a pub which I'd acquired from the elderly owner – his eye sight was poor enough that he only saw the outline of the scars but didn't care that much about them, reminding me of the kindness of the old man, bringing back lingering guilt for my first friend's demise. I was in London to visit the British Library, to find a particularly detailed book on anatomy that I didn't have in Victor's collection. I had left early in the morning, whilst it was still dark – a habit of mine, moving in darkness came naturally to those who spent their lives avoiding attention. I didn't sleep much for the nightmares any way, it didn't really matter when I got up or slept, they always plagued me. But moving around in the very early morning was easier than at night, when the muggers and the murderers were out and when people were more on guard, more quick to anger.

I was wrapped up more warmly that usual, enjoying the security that the scarf afforded me for hiding within. For once, I looked like the scarf was drawn up to shield me from the cold and the hat pulled down on my head was stopping my hair from being violently raked back against my freezing scalp by icy winds. In reality I could not have cared less that it was freezing, to me it was just a bit nippy – I had after all lived as near to the North Pole as any man had reached so far for longer than I had ever lived in the mild weather – so the extra layers were merely for decoration and disguise, but at least I could pretend otherwise today. I didn't look like the odd one out. I was walking down the street, without a care in the world, relishing in the feeling of going unnoticed in a crowd, a few coins jangling in my pocket, on the way to acquire a meal to keep me going for the next few days, since I wouldn't need to eat again for a while

I hadn't noticed anyone following me, I had fooled myself into thinking I was invisible - untouchable even - so I did not even glance around to check I was safe, a stupid thing because no-one was safe on the streets of London in those days. I was just so happy to be left alone... I doubt I looked around even once on the cold, dark morning. If I had I would have seen three large, burly men, all with at least a third of their teeth missing, with identical nasty sneers as they walked, nudging each other between swills of whiskey. They followed me for some time I am quite certain, since they lived a few minutes away from the pub I was staying in - I was sure of that because I recognised them from spending time drinking when I was just leaving, no-one travelled far from home to drink, it made it difficult to stumble back to your wife - and they had come with me all the way along the river bank of the Thames from their home to just a minute walk from the library I was headed towards. They didn't know me, not many people did to be fair, but I recognised them. They apparently saw my stolen clothes as fancy enough to indicate that I was well off and worth garrotting (a Victorian practice in which the victim is throttled with a scarf or chain or any other long strangulation device). I was suddenly aware of the closeness of the men at my back, of their breath of my neck, and was about to turn when the ends of my scarf were seized and the fabric was pulled tight, so tight that I gargled and lights popped behind my eyes, yelping as the blood supply in my carotid arteries was terminated. I struggled, fingertips prising at the fabric and desperately kicking out, my feet gaining no hold to push back into them, to throw them off, due to the ice.

Someone was rummaging through my pockets,

"What the 'ell is this? He ain't got nothin'!" The one holding me tightened his grip, snarling over my shoulder,

"Nothin', what about 'is front pocket? Any o' their class carries a pocket watch or somethin' with 'em!"

"Not 'im. He's got some coins but that's it." The man who was rifling through my pockets moved, forgetting to not let me see his face, in his frustration, and hissed,

"He ain't rich. I bet he just stole 'em clothes! He's like us, he is, a thief!"

"You idiot, 'e's seen you now." The man just waved him off,

"I ain't bothered, kill 'im if you 'ave to. He ain't no use to us."

The scarf was pulled tighter, and tighter, until my head was spinning and my throat felt like it was in an iron vice and then they dropped me, my legs falling out beneath me as I crashed down to the ice, gasping for air,

"What the 'ell's wrong with 'im?! Why ain't he dead?"

"Maybe you weren't squeezin' 'im 'ard enuff?"

"I squeezed as 'ard as I squeeze the others and they drop in 'alf the time!"

Someone snatched the scarf away, intent on looking at my neck to see if it was protected somehow from their stranglehold, they recoiled instantly upon seeing what was hidden beneath it,

"He's a demon! That's why 'e's still alive, 'e's a monster - bet 'e ain't even human!" One of the men nodded in agreement,

"Straight out o' 'ell 'e is! Come to punish us for what we're doing-" The largest of the men, and by default their leader if the arrogant tone was anything to go by, spoke up,

"'e ain't not demon. 'E's a man alright, a freakish one but 'e is one, or he wouldn't have even felt that. Look at 'im cowerin', he's human alright-"

"Then what do we do with the ugly blighter?" He gave them a dark, toothless grin, a look I didn't like the look of, it would mean only trouble for me,

"We take him to see our good ol' chum Albert." Their nasty grins were enough to prove that this wasn't something I would want. So, with the last of my strength, I shoved myself up and lurched forwards, catapulting across the ice. I was almost away, I knew my speed would vastly exceed theirs if it came to it – even if my strength was only just a match for one of them – but suddenly I was falling, the ice tripping me, and someone caught me round the waist, squeezing tight as I flailed, still gasping and spluttering out of my raw, screaming throat,

"Let go of me, you- you imbeciles!"

"Oh, 'e speaks does 'e? Even better." The leader stepped around his friend, to where I was wiggling in his grasp, leaning forwards so that hot, pungent breath wafted across my face,

"You'll pick up a nice price, you will. Me pal Albert, 'e runs the freak-show you see, and you my friend are more disgustin' than anythin' I 'ave ever seen in it-" I am not ashamed to say I spat in his face like a common street urchin. He bellowed in response, reaching to wring my neck but then there was darkness as pain exploded at the back of my head with the shattering of a gin bottle on my crown.

The last thing I saw was that nasty smile, warning me of what was to come when I woke to an even crueller world than even I had known.


	6. 1848 - The Freak Show

**AN. Okay**, **there's going to be a **_**very **_**drastic change to our story now. I hope it does not offend but here it comes.**

1848 – The Freak-show

I woke to the feeling of a sharp jab just below my Solar Plexus, making me recoil back slightly and then wince at the feeling of a particularly obese man sitting on my head and crushing my skull. I clutched at my pounding head, hearing a low groan and wincing at the noise aggravating my migraine – only to realise that the noise had fallen from my own chapped lips, I was parched. How long had I been unconscious?

Forcing one of my eyelids up to reveal a slither of light, that set my head pounding again, I peered out and saw the tiny face of a young girl, staring at me with huge eyes from just a couple of inches away. With a yell, and a squeal from the little blonde bit of a girl before me, I rolled away – ignoring the roaring protest in my head, as I tried to get away from the girl that had startled me, who was now sobbing into her mother's petticoats and dropping the stick of the toffee apple she had been prodding me with.

I glanced around in alarm, drinking in my surroundings, aghast at what I saw; I was in a tiny squalid cage, back pressed against the furthest bars but still only a couple of feet away – the cage was so small – crouched in filthy disease-ridden straw and unable to stand the ceiling was so low. Now that I could look around properly, I could see the leering faces of more than just the girl and the mother. Now that I was awake, they burst into riotous laughter, banging on the bars and making the blood in my head pound, only making the pain worse. They were laughing right in my face, grabbing at me through the jars and shoving me over so my face pressed into the straw and the filth. I shivered, not only because of their hurled insults and the fear but the freezing cold, someone had stripped me of my shirt, jacket and scarf, exposing my scars to the paying customers I now recognised them as, seeing men handing over coins and being escorted over by a greasy man. I still had my trousers, to preserve my modesty or to save the woman some blushes.

The blood rose to my cheeks in embarrassment at the pitiful state I had found myself in and then drained out almost instantly, making the men jeer all the more loudly as they saw the fear in my eyes. I could see the poster over their heads and hear their taunting, _freak-show. _Was that what I was now? An exhibit. The _freak. _Was this to be my life from now on? Watching them point and stare and laugh at my misfortune, without hope of kindness or redemption? I felt the cold slap of rotten tomatoes hitting my skin, men taking coins as the customers paid extra to be allowed to throw them, and I felt tears welling up but never falling, only humans could cry. I could never manage it.

I curled in on myself, trying to draw myself in so tightly that I couldn't hear their laughter of see their faces, so the rotting vegetable matter's smell could not reach me and the jabs no longer registered. The manager must have noticed, he was shouting at me to uncurl, to show his public what they wanted. I didn't reply and was shortly met with the threat of no food or water – the start of a very long period without either when he began to realise that depriving me seemed to have no effect. But when his threat was met without an answer, he opened the cage, I jumped up in a panicked and futile attempt of escape, only to grabbed and spat at by the crushing mass of people outside, who pinched and jabbed and hit me, before pushing me back in with the man who had become my new master, as Victor had been long ago.

Only this man didn't abuse me with his indifference and his coldness, his grudge and hatred from afar; this man abused me in a very physical sense. I screamed out at the unfamiliar feeling of the belt lashing into my back, as two men on the other side of the bars reached through to hold me in place and allow the beatings to rain down over and over. They all seemed bemused when I lasted so long, until final, wiping the sweat from his brow, the man stepped back and climbed back out of the blood drenched straw, as I shivered and curled into the foetal position on the floor, my eyes sliding over their faces but never quite focusing.

That was the first and worst beatingwith a belt that I had ever received. Of course there were the men who had stopped in the streets to hit me or kick me, like those men by the campfire who had beaten me on my first night of life for frightening them – who had taught me my first words (bugger off). But this was worse. This came every day, a barrage of stinging and slicing blows that opened wounds that never had the opportunity to heal, a daily show to entertain the public who would pay extra for the privilege – sometimes they ran competitions where the men paid to see who could get the loudest noise from me. I was forced to lie on my stomach most of the time, occasionally I could sit up but it was rare.

There was one particular girl that I remembered more distinctly than any of the others.

It was near the end of the first year that I first saw her; she was part of the travelling circus so she travelled around with us. I remembered her quite distinctly. It had been her first day, Albert – my master as he made me refer to him as – was showing her around, leering at the young girl. She had paused at my cage, as I crouched in the corner, using a bowl of dirty water – which I had been told not to drink as a punishment for an insolent comment, not that I would it looked like a prime breeding place for cholera – to clean my bleeding wounds. She had stared wide eyed at the bright re, blood-filled bowl of water and them stuttered to Albert,

"He shouldn't be doing that-"

"I know that, but my wife say 'e looks ghastly overwise and you can't see 'is ugly face through the blood otherwise." The girl's brow furrowed slightly as she replied primly,

"I mean he shouldn't be using a dirty bowl of water, he'll get an infection and then you'll lose your main attraction." Albert frowned at her, before taking a threating step closer to her – forcing her up against the bars of my cage and getting close to her face – as he growled,

"I have taken care of that Thing for a year, I think I know 'ow to look after 'im by now. Now get your pretty little self to the caravans or I'll put on of those lashings on that lovely pale skin o' yours."

She whimpered slightly and then, without another a word, disappeared out of the tent the Freak-Show was housed in, Thomas giving me one last look and leaving me alone. I sighed slightly looking at the areas where the bearded lady, the tattooed man, the pig faced woman (a shaved bear in reality) and the contortionist usually sat during the day. At night all except the bear (which slept outside so they didn't have to clean up after it) went to the caravans with the other circus folk, leaving me alone – the only one in a cage. They had had a lunatic for a brief while, a hollowed out, frothing shell of a man who had screeched prophecies of doom and rattled the bars – giving me hope that I would no longer be the star attraction as he drew larger crowds – but he had slashed his wrists with one of the broken bottles someone had thrown at him, leaving me the only occupant of a cage once more. They didn't need to show me even basic human kindness, I was nothing more than a creature in the eyes of the law, I didn't need to eat or drink or even sleep, I had no home or family, I was as well of here as I would be in prison or a lunatic asylum. I get the feeling that bribery had something to do with the police never attempting to get me out of my prison.

It was about midnight, as I was about halfway through the cleaning that I felt gentle hands pressing a clean rag with clear, cooling water against my back. I flinched slightly, wondering what was happened, and turned to see a pale face in the chink of moonlight that I was allowed through a small hatch in the ceiling. She smiled fleetingly at me. She was rather pretty, with a round open face and tiny doll-like features beneath a head of long red hair, sat on top of a tiny fragile figure,

"I'm one of the acrobats, my name's Elizabeth, what's yours?" I frowned at her,

"Didn't he tell you? I'm not allowed one."

"Well he's not here so I'm allowing you-"

"I don't have one. My father chose not to give me one."

"That's a shame." She sat in silence, humming slightly under her breath as she cleaned the wound far more quickly and efficiently that I could, getting to the spots I had difficulty, "where are you from?"

"Ingolstadt."

"You sound English."

"I've lived here a long time, my father was from him, but his family was from Geneva."

"Why do you say his family? Isn't it yours as well?"

"I'm not really related to my father."

"Did he adopt you?"

"I suppose you could say that, in a very very distant way… but you could also say it was very reluctant." She nodded, moving around to sit in front of me,

"I'm from London, I lived there my whole life."

"Why are here then?"

"I ran away from home. You can only like one place for so long before you run away and decide to never come back."

"Won't your parents miss you?"

"I shouldn't imagine so; they have ten other children. I was the eldest, born out of wedlock and the shame of the family. You didn't even blink when I said that, most people are appalled that my parents had me before they were married."

"If you knew the story of my parentage then I imagine that you would be rather more shocked. Your birth might be frowned upon by the bible but I'm fairly certain I abhors even God himself, why else would he punish me by putting me here?"

"I think that's just bad luck." I stared at her pale face for a second, as it seemed to glow in the moonlight,

"You should probably get back; the girls you share with will probably notice your missing."

"I'll just tell them I was with a gentleman."

"You really shouldn't have to lie for me."

"I think it was entirely a truth. I will come back tomorrow night, goodbye my dear." She pressed a fleeting kiss to my forehead, shocking me to the very core – for it was the first time any woman had willingly touched her lips to my skin – and then turned a flittered away from the cage, as nimble and light on the feet as would befit an acrobat.

She was true to her word. The next night she returned to help me tend my wounds and again and again and again. She told me about what the circus had done that day, the new routines they had perfected, the audience's reactions, what the others were doing, giggling over her friend Charlotte's antics and shuddering as she relayed Albert's advances. Every story made me want to skin my master alive every day.

Every day I felt the feeling of my heart pounding in my chest more and more, my palms sweating as I anticipated her arrival every night. I knew that she was the only thing keeping me going in the next few months and I could not help but to feel the love growing in my heart for the young girl that came to me like my saving grace every evening, an angel in my Hell. She was a creature of perfect innocence who kissed me on the cheek every night and who brought me books to further my reading (I was allowed them because it made me look distinguished enough that it amused the public – a dumb creature trying to be intelligent… as if I wasn't twice as intelligent as any of them) or smuggling treats in inside her petticoats.

One night she came to me and – as per usual – pressed herself up against the bars and looked up at me, tears in her huge china blue eyes as she said,

"I know you hate for me to see you during the day but I couldn't help it today, my darling. I'm so sorry… I came in the afternoon, I wanted to speak with Albert about a new routine and- well-" I knew what she was about to say,

"You saw the lashings?" She nodded, plump bottom lip trembling,

"It was dreadful, I don't know how you can stand it my dear thing- it was dreadful and you were so brave."

"I'm used to it Elizabeth, I have felt the lash of a whip every day except the day of our Lord for the past year, I barely feel it anymore."

"I know, dear, but I heard the terrible things they said."

"They were tame today, I can handle it. I am ugly, it is what we must face and I have moved past it-" She caught my hand and pulled me towards her, pressing my hands to her soft chest and standing on her tiptoes, until our faces were just inches apart,

"You shouldn't have to! You are beautiful, my poor fallen angel. They have locked you here to beat you as if you are nothing but an animal but they cannot see what I do, you are so very beautiful on the inside and out. I see how handsome you are beneath those scars and you have a heart of gold, I don't care that you bear those scars, you are beautiful and I love you."

"And I love you, Elizabeth, you are my closest friend-"

"I don't mean it like that and you know it," she tightened her grip, pulling my hands closer to her chest until I could feel her heart beating below my fingertips, "you feel this, you feel that rhythm? It speeds up every time I see you, it thunders in my chest, it beats only for you. If you turn me away now, then my heart will surely break. I will never love anyone but you, say you love me too."

"Of course I do, how could I not? But you forget this one simple fact. There can be no future for us. I am in a cage, locked up so that people can laugh at my hideous face and even if I were to escape we would forever be chased by my owner and those I have wronged or laughed at in the street, you would be alienated or treated like a mad woman for loving me-"

"I don't care. I love you and I will find a way for us to be together. You are as much a man as any I have set eyes on, more than them in fact-"

"I'm not whole Elizabeth. Long ago I realised that I don't have a soul-"

"A soul is what you choose to love with and what is touched when you are loved, I give my heart to you now and you promise me yours – how can you not have a soul? I love you. I love you more than anything, please my darling. I will find a way for us to be together. Say you'll have me."

"Always." She smiled up at me and then soft lips pressed to mine, my heart racing a thousand times a minute, before she pulled away – leaving me in a haze of perfume and love – as she whispered,

"I'll be back soon, I have an idea."

She disappeared for just ten minutes, before suddenly she was back, her hands fumbling with the lock, and twisting the key in it – a key I knew only Albert possessed – as I whispered,

"How did you-?"

"As me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." There was a resounding click and then a thunk, as the lock fell to the ground and for the first time in a year, I fell out of my cage and stood up straight. She grinned up at me, head craned back to look up at me at my full height, "you're a lot taller than I realised." I chuckled,

"I could say you're a lot shorter than I realised." She giggled, before reaching up to wrap her hands around my neck and pull me down into a blazing kiss. I was lost in her scent, twisting my fingers into fiery red hair and pressing her flush against me, before she pulled away once more, wrapping her dainty hand in my own,

"Quick, we have to get away. I have my possessions in a bag, but we need to get as far away from here as possible." I nodded, taking the bag from her – I hadn't forgotten my manners – and pulling on the clean clothes she seemed to have stolen from Albert since I had been in that same squalid pair of trousers for over a year now.

And with one last look over our shoulders at the circus that had contained us, but at the same time brought up together, we went on the run – disappearing beneath the starless night sky and into the cold world, outcasts and escapees.

**AN. I may be updating tomorrow, I want to get all of the next few chapters in so I can get the world war one chapters posted very soon as part of my remembrance day contribution.**

**What do you think of the change to Elizabeth, there'll be more from her shortly (i.e. how she got the key) and let me know in a review if you prefer/hate this new version.**


	7. 1848 - On the run

1848 – On the Run

The Creature POV

I slowly pulled myself out from the thick haze of the first full night's rest I'd had in a long time. Instead of the cold, damp and yet dry and scratchy feeling of straw prickling at my exposed skin - which seemed to be a confusing mixture overly sensitive from the cuts and gapes that marred the ghostly pale skin, and yet numb all over from the wide mesh of scar tissue - I woke instead to the feeling the achingly perfect feel of soft skin - like the most luxurious silken gloves - caressing my fingertips. My grasp tightened automatically, stirring the soft, lovely angel that had fallen from heaven and right into the grip of a devil. She made a gentle snuffling sound that seemed to be all the more entrancing to me and then, for the first time in my life, soft and warm body pressed back against me, fitting to my own like we had been born of one body and torn apart, into two pieces that complemented each other in a way I could never had hoped for.

Her head tipped back and then she was rolling over, her hands seeking something to hold onto and when they settled on the collar of my stolen shirt, they tightened as if she would never let go. As I placed my hands on her hips, pulling her to my chest, I was certain that I knew exactly how that felt. When she was so close, so warm and pliable and fragrant in my arms - with the smell and feel of freshly grown rose petals, in her fragility and her gentle beauty - it hardly seemed real. The night before she had allowed me to touch her in a way I had touched no one since Victor's Elizabeth, but now I had my own and I had been given permission to touch her… in fact she had begged me, desperately calling out her love and asking for mine. There was nothing so endearing as to hear someone give their heart and soul and body to you, and to feel that in that instant you would return the favour a hundred times over.

I had never hoped to hold someone so tight, so lovingly, I had thought that everyone would run and scream, terrified by Victor's creature. But here she was, of her own will, so close that I could – and already had – kissed every freckle on her alabaster skin, run my hands over and explore over every bare inch of flesh. I had been with a woman who loved me, for reasons I could not fathom – but would certainly not protest - and I could not imagine being with any other. I had stolen an angel from Heaven, I become so utterly infatuated that I had no intentions of ever giving her back.

One bare leg, entwined as it was around me, began to move and stretch out as she woke, her eyes blinking like a startled animal as she looked around at the small abandoned cottage we had taken shelter in, confused for a second until realisation hit her eyes as she saw the expanse of my chest in her eyeline. She shivered slightly and then looked up at me, so charmingly rumpled with her curls sticking out at odd angles and her lips swollen, she had never looked so beautiful,

"You're still here." My heart felt like it had been plunged into icy water,

"Do you- did you want me to leave? I- I can if that's-"

"No, my poor thing, I didn't mean it like that. I want you to stay here, for as long as you want to be with me."

"Then you will never be rid of me."

"I merely thought-" Her voice dropped to her whisper, "I worried that, you might- you might leave me, you might realise what I had done, you're so smart and you can tell so much about a person from their behaviour. I thought, by now, you would have realised what I'd done, and left me in disgust." I was aware of my head cocking slightly to the side, curious as to what she meant, but then a chuckle falling from my lips,

"I'm sure it is not so bad as you say, Elizabeth, and I'm afraid that I cannot quite lay my finger on what has upset you so. But I can assure you, that it is nothing so bad as I have done in my life."

"Tell me, my love. Whenever we talked back at the-" She went to say circus and then something held her back, as if she couldn't bear to say it, to remember out time there, and then she continued, "when we talked back _there, _I told you my life story but you told me so little. I don't know how you came to be in London on the day you were snatched, I know nothing of the time before, and I want to know everything of the story that breaks your heart so much that you cannot bear to speak of your pain, I want to know you better."

She pulled the threadbare blanket tighter around her beautiful, lithe form and wrapped her arms around my chest, she was so close that I could hardly remember a time when her arms had not held me so, when I had been starved of affection and the single greatest comfort in the world of a touch. One touch is all we needed to portray our love, our care and our devotion, to our friends or our families or our lovers, but I had never received one, and I had been unloved for so very long. But now that past, which was only a few hours behind me - when this simple comfot had been denied me by my appearence and metal bars - now that past seemed a million years ago. Her pale cheek pressed to my chest, just above where my heart beat, as if listening to the sound of the melody that she had inspired, that only she would ever hear. She looked up at me pleadingly, with wide china blue eyes, "please, I must know the truth, my dear. If I am to love you then I must know you, and I know so little. If you told me your backstory then I know that my heart would surely explode out my chest with the love I'll feel for the man you truly are, but I don't even know your name."

Her hands reached out tentatively, caressing my face gently and tipping it towards her, pressing her lips to mine with silent encouragement, so that when I answered I mumbled against the soft contours of plump rosy skin,

"I told you the truth when I said that I wasn't allowed one."

"Well then, what was your name when you _were _allowed one."

"But that is just the thing, Elizabeth. I was never allowed one; not in the eyes of society, of my master or my father, who were one and the same. Albert was never my master, only Victor Frankenstein ever held that power over me." She looked at me with such utter compassion and understanding that it almost broke my heart, his Elizabeth had looked at me like that once. But the sadness in the eyes that looked at me now were not pitying me for my pains, Elizabeth had merely felt sorry for me but did not allow it to break her heart. Not as I saw it now, now I saw my pain reflected in these eyes and shared it. My pain became hers, she was heartbroken because that was how I felt.

"And what of your mother?"

"She did not exist." She drew back slightly, the fingers which had been lightly tracing my scars, thoughtful as she tried to listen and understand, suddenly stopped where they were poised in the air,

"But surely, even if she died in your birth, she existed once upon a time. You must have a mother. It is not possible-"

"My mother was electricity, my father's mistress was science and his wife was his work, the woman he married filled none of those positions. She was just another woman in his life, and because of it she came to a bad end, which she did not deserve."

"I don't understand what you mean; tell me the whole story."

"Promise that you will not leave… no, I cannot ask that. You cannot hope to make that promise now, I wouldn't want to tie you to a monster with such an oath only for you to realise what you have done and want no place beside me."

"And I wouldn't want to be tied to anyone else. I will be with you no matter what tale you tell me now."

"Then listen to my story, my whole story, and make that judgement for yourself. Please, do not judge me too harshly."

And so, over the next hour or so, I regaled the whole story. I was very particular about leaving no detail untold and no crime of nature, nor of action, untouched, so she would know exactly what she was letting herself into. She knew the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I laid out my whole sorry tale and put my heart into her hands, relieved that I had finally gotten it off my chest after years of guarding the whole sorry story, then watching warily to see if she would care for it, protect it and its secrets, or freeze if with her icy glare and shatter it into a thousand pieces.

And then she did something truly amazing, for a second I didn't even know what to do – I feared that she was about to reject me – because she wept. Suddenly the light blue oceans in her irises were spilling out over her cheeks, tiny sparkling droplets making their way down her face steadily and, just as I feared she was about to say she was crying because she could not love me after hearing of my atrocities, she held me closer,

"I'm so sorry, my sweet angel. You did not ask to me be brought into this world, to be created like this – and I would not have it any other way because I love you just like this – but we have been so cruel to you. It's no wonder you fought back against the world, tried to get back at it for taunting you so, but are so strong for escaping that life, my love."

"I killed people-"

"And now you suffer the consequences and the guilt. Do you honestly think that anyone else would have done anything different? They were accidents and mistakes, which you will carry on your shoulders for the rest of your life, you are a good man, no matter your past."

"Doesn't it bother you? What I did… to Victor's Elizabeth? Doesn't it repulse you that I have caused such pain? That you are lying in bed with a murderer, a torturer, a rapist and a fiend-" A long, pale finger jabbed into my chest and she hissed through the tears she wept for me,

"Don't you dare talk like that! You are not that man anymore, you never truly were. I'll admit you've done bad things, who has not! I love you, right here in this moment and I will continue to do so until the end of my life, I don't care what you were before now. All I care about is stopping your pain, helping you and always being with you. And that's where I'm going to stay… if you'll let me." I just held her tighter, calming her down – truly touched that she could feel like this for me, that she took my pain and made it her own – and gently pressed my lips to her forehead, muttering,

"Of course I will. I love you, I always will."


	8. 1848 - Bitter Parting

The Creature POV

We had been on the run for four months when it came to an abrupt end. Though the fear of discovery had been intense, and we had been constantly on the move – I wished to settle back into my home but Elizabeth feared discovery of we stayed in one place for too long. Why her fear was so powerful I didn't know at the time, though I could hazard a guess – but it had been the best time of my life, with someone I loved, and who finally shared my feelings, at my side.

Though we slept in abandoned huts outside of towns, or in attics and old lodgings, staying hidden away, never staying somewhere for more than a day, I had never felt happier or more loved. I was used to sleeping in bed filled with God knows how many lice, in freezing cold rooms or under the stars, but now I did not just tolerate it... I revelled in it. For every sleepless night was shared with another, spent with her in my arms, without fear of her being taken away and that was better than the comfortable bed back home. Occasionally, we were able to find some money - it was usually through pickpocketing, as we never stayed long enough to work and no-one would hire us without references and with an appearence such as mine, and I had light hands and the ability to remain unnoticed as I stuck to to the shadows. The money that we didn't use for food went into staying in half decent lodgings, where they often asked of our relationship - many wouldn't give a room to an unwedded couple, or at least not a shared room - and it always made my heart feel a little bit warmer when we told them we were newly-weds. Well, she told them, I stayed out of sight... otherwise priests had a bad habit or turning up on our doorstep to exorcise the monster, this had happened more than once, I thought it was a _slight _over-reaction.

But, in many ways, we were like newly-weds; we were as passionately in young love as any couple in their honeymoon period. I adored her, she was like the sun rising on a very long night, through which I had suffered alone. She was my present, my future, my hope, my love and my joy in one and when I was with her, I didn't feel hideous. I didn't feel dark and hateful, I felt like I was perfect because that's how she saw me. It wasn't even that she ignored my scars; she saw my scars for exactly what they were and thought that they were beautiful, and I often woke to her pressing her lips to my scarred forehead or fingertips brushing, as light as a feather, down my face.

I knew I would never love anyone more than her, it just wasn't possible; I would have made her my wife in an instant… except I was afraid that she was blinded by young love, she was so very young. She had told me when we met that she was twenty two, not much younger than my thirty years, though I felt much older, but I suspected that she had lied so I would not think of her as a child. I would never have looked at her as any other than the beautiful young woman I saw but I could understand her worry... but I also knew that age could be an issue, she might just be too young to know what she was letting herself in for.

But I did not want to tie her to me if - in a few weeks or months or years - she would turn around and realise what she had done, with no hope of turning back or escaping me. She begged me to believe that she would always love me and never regret her decision to run away with me. There was another reason I didn't want to tie her to me for life; I was terrified that we could never have a family. I was different, anatomically I was the same as any man but my chemistry was different. I healed and lived but I didn't age, what if I also couldn't have children? I couldn't put her through that. One day we would grow old and as an old woman she would realise that she had traded a happily married life of stability and children, with a husband who could work and make money and support her, for a young affair and a life constantly on the run with a man who couldn't work, couldn't provide, and couldn't give her children, and maybe I wouldn't even grow old. Maybe I wouldn't even be able to give her the gift of growing old together, I would have to watch her wither and die as she hated me for an eternal youth I never wanted. She said it didn't matter but I knew that it did, or at least one day it would.

It was an early October morning that our 'marital' bliss ended. We had hired a cottage from an old couple, for the weekend, spending the whole time just lying in bed, wrapped in each other's arms. It was just after the crack of dawn light had first appeared through the curtains, illuminating the pile of pale skin that was our entwined bodies, gradually waking us. She tilted her head back, looking up at me sleepily through her loose curls,

"Morning, love." We hadn't found a name for me yet, it was on our list of things to do. Every day, after she had gone out to fetch the shopping, she would tell me the names of the people she had met, what they were like and what they looked like, as we tried to find something that fitted. But nothing seemed right – she wanted something different, something interesting and uncommon, and she wouldn't settle for anything less. So she usually just called me by pet names.

"Good morning, Elizabeth." She curled in tighter to my chest,

"What are we doing today then?" I pretended to consider and then replied,

"Lying in bed, whilst I ravish you and treat you to a full display of my affection." She chuckled,

"Sounds wonderful to m-" She was cut off my a short rapping knock on the front door, making us both frown, "who on Earth could that be? I don't remember inviting anyone to here. It might be the old couple I suppose but at this time in the morning?"

"I'll get it, stay here." I reluctantly unwound our limbs and pushed myself onto my feet, pulling on the first pair of trousers I could find and frantically half tucking in and half buttoning the nearest shirt, venturing out with bare feet and chest, my tufts of slowly growing hair rumpled and my eyes still unclear from having only just woken. The knock repeated itself, more impatiently, "wait a minute, I'm coming."

I unbolted the door and pulled it open, only for it to be thrown open as soon as I opened it a small crack to have a look round. The intruder bodily shoved the door open, knocking me back and into the wall. The man sneered down at me, his strong jaw reminding me of Ernest and the tousled red curls frighteningly similar to Elizabeth's,

"You're as ugly as I thought, you'd be." I stared him for a second, completely dumbfounded by his statement, before shakily pushing myself up and growling,

"Excuse me? You cannot just burst into my home and insult me, get out of- what the Hell are you doing? GET AWAY FROM THERE!" The man was storming off down the corridor in a blazing whirlwind, to the room I had just emerged from where the rumbled bedclothes and one slender foot were just visible, before spinning on his heel and spitting,

"I'm going to fetch my twin sister, if you don't mind." I stared at him in shock,

"I beg your pardon."

"Elizabeth Holmes, the now infamous acrobat who murdered her boss and ran away with her circus freak lover, bringing shaming to - and shattering - my family. You two are the talk of all the upper circles, you've ruined her, and I'm here to take her back. It's taken me this long to track you down – the police seemed to have given up." A tiny voice gasped out, as she appeared in the doorway with rumbled hair and a hastily pulled dress and nightgown,

"William, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing but I think I can tell, harlot." She shrank back as the man bore down on her, a hand raising to strike her. That single movement ignited the rage inside me as I grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back, dropping him to his knees with a bellow,

"You dare call her that again or lay a finger on her and I'll rip your throat out. Say whatever you like to me but you leave her alone." I shoved him away from me, wrapping her up in my arms and shielding her against my chest, her brother snarling,

"I call her that because it's the truth. An unmarried young girl living in sin with a demon, you're coming home now Elizabeth-"

"I will do nothing of the sort. I love him, William, and that's more than I can say or you and Jane-"

"My marriage is not what I'm here to discuss. You're coming home with me, we're going to beg the police to understand and tell them that _he-_" He jabbed his thumb in my direction of that point, "made you kill Albert." I glanced down at her, my suspicions finally confirmed,

"You killed Albert." She looked at me pleadingly,

"I didn't want to- p-please believe me, I never wanted to kill him." I her tighter, pulling her shaking body closer to mine as she sobbed, ignoring her brother's protest and slapping his hand away when he tried to part us,

"Hush, Elizabeth, I know you didn't. I will admit I had my suspicions, but I never knew what exactly had transpired on that night-"

"I just wanted to steal the keys off his bedside table but he woke up and- and he took me outside. He tried to- he tried to hurt me, to ra… to rap-"

"To make you suffer as I made Victor's Elizabeth." She nodded, going to wipe her tears away with trembling hands, only for me to beat her to it, cupping her face in my hands and wiping them away with a brush of my thumbs,

"I picked up a nearby mallet, it had just been abandoned after one of the men finished constructing the big top for the circus and I- I hit him. I didn't realise how hard it was but then- then there was so much blood and he wasn't moving. I panicked so I stole the keys and ran back to get you. I knew the police would come after us, so I made sure we kept running – I was worried that a rumour would spread if we settled anywhere and they would catch me and take me to prison."

"That won't happen."

"No, it won't because I'm taking her home and away from you. You're coming back to your real life."

"I am not!" He seized her wrist as she went to turn away,

"Elizabeth, listen to me! You cannot stay here, think about your future-"

"My future is going to have the one man I love, who I will always love, in it. I don't care what you say, he is going to be there." I couldn't help nodding along, kissing her forehead as she leant into me. The look of disgust told me what he thought of that. He pushed his head of curls – so similar to hers – back out of his face in frustration and asked politely,

"Could you let me speak with your… creature alone for a minute?"

"What are you going to say to him?"

"I'm going to be civil. I'm going to make him see sense, and if you are so certain that he will not because he loves you then you will not be worried about leaving him for a minute. Just a brief talk and then I'll leave here, whether you come with me or not is up to you two. Just a couple of minutes, and then it'll be over."

She glared at him defiantly but he didn't make any move to step down, so she sighed and took my hands in hers, clutching them to her chest, as she kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear,

"Don't listen to him; he will not part us, no matter what he says. I want to be with you, so take no notice of him." Then, with a final kiss, she left us alone, going back into the bedroom to dress more presentably than the rumbled old dress she had grabbed off the floor. He watched her go for a second, waiting until the door closed and then turned to regard me coolly, taking a step forward and speaking in hushed tones, so she would not overhear us,

"Are you really going to keep her here? Trap her with a monster for a husband? At the moment it's new and exciting, she still has that buzz of young love – she's eighteen years old, she has her whole life ahead of her. Do you really want her to go through life as a social pariah, with a beast for a husband, and God knows if you can have children. One day she'll be old and withered, stuck next to you – as young as the day you met – with no legacy left on this Earth, yes I know you don't age. My father told me that you are as young now as the day he first saw you, on the day of my brother's death. She doesn't belong here, with you, she belongs with her family."

"She belongs with me for as long as she wants to be here, she loves me-"

"But how long will that last? She doesn't know what she wants; she left her fiancée behind to go running after you, curious about the creature our father told us about, desperate to find it and make it feel loved. She went to a ballet school for most of her life, stuck in a boarding school, and then she ran away to seek freedom and found you. She's had that thrill, now she needs to go home to her real life, marry a normal man who can provide for her and give her children, you can't be the man she deserves, so just let her go."

How could I argue? It broke my heart a thousand times over but he was right, I'd known all along that it couldn't last, my happiness never did. She was to be torn from me, just as my first love – my first bride – had been. But it was only fair on her. If I loved her I had to let her go.

If I truly loved her, I had to tell her to leave.

And she knew when I opened the door; she knew the decision. She'd always known it was the decision that would inevitably be made at one point, but had hoped to delay. But at least now she could go away, young and fresh, and start anew with her whole life ahead of her.

But that isn't to say she went easily; she screamed and begged and pleaded, getting down on her knees and clutching my leg, sobbing as I refused to yield, as I made it clear. She understood, she always would but she called me a fool, told me it didn't matter, screamed that she loved me and she would never love another, and I parroted back the words through my own silent tears. But I stayed straight backed, staring ahead as the tears rolled down my face and she shook me and hit me, trying to get a response. But if I responded, I knew I would never be able to turn away from the best thing that had ever happened to me, I would crumble and the decision that needed to be made would be ignored.

And with a final kiss, one last declaration of love and the promise of hundreds of letters, she was gone, leaving nothing behind but the tear tracks drying, cold and sticky, on my flushed skin. As I sunk back into the bed, put my face in my hands and sobbing through my broken heart, I knew my final hope of love had been snatched out from beneath me. I felt like a rug had been pulled out from under my feet, sending my flying back into the pits of despair, in the throngs of that uncertain and stomach dropping feeling of not knowing what would happen whilst suspended mid-air, before your fall.

And I had fallen.


	9. 1859 - Letters

The Creature POV

At first, although it was difficult, life carried on. Our worlds had been torn apart and for a brief while we had crumbled, unable to even face the light of day and feeling that stab of pain and loneliness in our every waking moment - and taunted by dreams of the one we had lost in ever non-waking moment - but then we were able to carry on, to pick up the pieces and keep living.

At first, I received letters every day, detailing how her life was left wanting without my presence. She sent me funny anecdotes about her life, about how her young siblings had reacted to their first essay with utter distaste, lamenting about how her mother treated her like damaged goods and her father kept her under lock and key, how her family saw her as a flight risk and the fiancée they had chosen for her only visited her once a week. She told me stories of her happy childhood, but where the other child had thought her odd and preferred her more popular sibling. She told me of her adolescence wasted in a dormitory at a ballet school, she relayed the tales that her father – Ernest – had told her about me and his parents and siblings, I read with particular interest the stories about Victor, desperate to know more about my father. But above all, she wrote of how much she missed me and wished we were together again, back in the cottage before it all went wrong, she begged me to come and steal her away, to explain why I couldn't. And, when all else failed or words would not come, she simply promised me she would love me until the end of her days.

The letters had slowed after the first month, not because she didn't want to send them but because it got increasingly difficult to sneak them to the maids, to be posted, when she was in the midst of hurried preparations for the wedding. Understandably, they wanted her married to a respectable man, who would control her and teach her how to be a proper lady again, who would tie her to her life.

_My dearest,_

_Today is the morning of my honeymoon; nothing extravagant, my husband has business to attend to shortly so we spend just a weekend as man and wife – oh how I _loathe_ that phrase when it lends itself to suggest that I am his, his possession, when my heart belongs to you – before he returns to work. I am certain that he has his own mistress, one of the lady's maids he insisted attend to us on our trip. Oh how I despise the man. He is so cold and unyielding, determined to break my spirit as he would lunge a horse, to teach me to respond to him and to behave with utter obedient._

_He forced me to lie with him in our marital bed last night, on the eve of my wedding, though he knew I was no blushing virgin as most young grooms would expect. Not that he is particularly young, he's at least ten years my senior… perhaps that is not notable since you are considerably older than I but your age sits well on you, his does not. He feels old and cruel whereas you were young and kind and innocent, a kindred spirit and my other half - far more so than my twin brother, who I was told would always be my other half._

_My new husband is cold and exceedingly unappealing, paying no heed to my own desires (not that he could fulfil them, since they are you) but I was left completely unfulfilled and utterly unthrilled. Is this to be my life from now on? I wish I could refuse it, that you would ride up on a horse and snatch me from my soon to be monotony._

_But I understand that you cannot, nothing has changed except that you have learnt to live without my presence and we have felt the pangs of heartache more keenly as weeks have passed. You still do not see how beautiful and worth my time, and anyone's time at that, you are and you still do not think I can be happy without the certainty of children in my future. Women and men born of wombs can be infertile as well, my dear, you are not the only one in the world and they live long and fulfilling lives even without children. But let us not argue, I miss you so much. I know you are working on your investigations into your birth and your body again, and I'm sure my uncle, your father, would be exceedingly proud of you – as I am. I wish you every success in finding happiness and the normality you crave, though I believe you are perfect as you are._

_I shall have to finish my letter here, as I have been feeling tired for the past few days - the wedding and its preparations have worn me down - and need to lie down for a little while. I hope you reply to this letter with the swiftness to which I have become accustomed,_

_With all of my love,_

_Forever Your Elizabeth._

The letters' frequency continued to slow considerably after that, as married life grew more demanding and then she moved further away to be with her husband. Not long after letters came telling me of her pregnancy and how she hoped she would be better at naming the baby than she had been at naming me – since she had yet to figure out what I should be called. After her first son was born, a dark curly haired baby called Edward, her letters had all but entirely halted and then one day I realised that they weren't coming anymore. My final link to happiness and love was finished, her young love ad fizzled as it to be expected; I no longer had a tie to the mortal world as I hid away in my house in Oxford, spending my days pining for happiness. Sometimes I wished that, now she had her baby, I could swoop in and snatch her away to live with me, without worrying that I would never provide her with a child. But one look in at her new life, watching from afar, had confirmed my worst fear.

I had gone to see her in her new home, in a moment of weakness, and watched through the windows as he came home from work and met her in the living room. She was beautiful as I remembered by her long red hair had been tamed and pulled out her face now, her features softened slightly and absolutely stunning with the warmth that motherhood had afforded her, she suited it. She was soft and curvaceous now, having had children and stopped dancing, but her features had lost the last remnants of baby fat from her youth and made her all the more perfect.

And as she greeted him I knew she loved him; ten years of spending her life with him, having been thrust into his embrace, she grown to love him, greeting him with a private smile that only he was afforded to the sound of a smattering of red-headed children running through the house, children I could never have hoped to provide. She loved him now; not in the young, passionate and all-consuming way that she had loved me, a love that blazed so strong that ultimately it could not be sustained and had collapsed in on itself, like a star, but in a soft and gentle way, with a fondness and an understanding that had grown as the years went by and the number of footsteps pattering in their cosy home increased. And once again I was left out in the cold, desperately wishing for just as tiny piece of such happiness.

So I turned away, went home in the darkest of moods and barricaded myself into my home once more to cut myself off from the world, holing myself away in the hope that one day I would find that with someone and I would be free, but content for now to remember what I had. I didn't re-emerge until her children were fully grown and her face, preserved as it was in my mind with its youthful beauty, but no doubt lined and surrounded by grey-hair in reality, was fading away in my mind.


	10. 1916 - Self imposed prison

**An. I know the last chapter was pitifully small! Here's a bit more of substantial chapter, which I wrote originally for Remembrance Sunday but since I hadn't written the chapters between by that point I couldn't post.**

The Creature POV

The days bled into night and night into day until my life was just a haze of days passing; time no longer mattered when I was trapped in my self-imposed prison, in never-ending night, my curtains pulled shut to shield me from a hateful world and keep out the memories that haunted me. Long days were spent just sat in Victor's armchair, staring into the candlelight – the only light in the darkness – and thinking on the past, occasionally plucking at the strings of my violin, playing sharp angry melodies or long mournful tones to fill the permanent silence.

If she could have seen me in those dark days.

On a good day I put on a shut and washed, studied obsessively and left my mad scrawled pages on my desk; on bad days I was unkempt, the curls which had grown were unwashed and greasy, a multitude of colours growing from patchwork skin – each hair colour coming from a different corpse's scalp – and covered in dirt, ink and sweat. I stank of whiskey and sat in the darkness with nothing but the rats and the smell to keep me company. The pages were torn and my shirt was stained from being worn for years without changing, reeking, and with blood and ink dribbled down the front from where I had smashed the glass ink pots against the walls in my fury. The notes which I had ripped up, in my frustration at my lack of progress, had been rapidly remade and improved, put into a leather binder to prevent a repeat performance in my future drunken anger.

I can honestly say that I did not leave for fifty seven years, when she would no doubt be old – if she was in fact still living – and withered. I felt numb, not quite knowing if the uncertainty of whether she lived was a comfort or not. On one hand it meant I was free, she was gone and I was no longer haunted by her memories, on the other hand… a life, a world, without my love. It seemed a cruel and empty world and I felt so much more alone. And I felt more repulsive, not just because of the mould and decay I had allowed myself to fall into but because she had been the only one to find me beautiful, without her I was unprotected by my horrible face. Still scarred and not much improved in all that time of study, the paleness of my skin – which had not seen the light of day for so long – seemed to only exaggerated the scarlet scar tissue, though it had shrunk slightly and some of the worst scars – on my body and my scalp – were now covered by hair or clothing.

I don't know if I had had any intentions of ever leaving. Food was periodically brought up to the house by a boy from the village, if I sent for it, but I had no need to go out into the world. A world where I routinely mocked, where I had to see daylight and know that she was out there and not with me. The world would never change; I would never be loved and I would never be accepted, always a beast and a freak, always fearful of another day and another freak show, and no longer able to find a lover because no-one would want me and I didn't have the strength to be rejected again and again. Perhaps I would have just stayed in my armchair and rotted away until one day, in decades to come, someone would come to find me still sat there, covered in cobwebs, my glazed eyes watching a long ago extinguished flame, one hand on my breaking heart and other on my violin.

But whatever the case, I was not allowed. Life intervened, as it often had in my past, so cruelly.

I had been in the middle of applying a new chemical treatment I had developed to my skin, frowning in irritation at the slight burning feeling. But apart from that it was a perfectly ordinary day in Hell, one in a trail of extremely dull weeks which trailed into each other, indifferent to night and day. They were all the same. All as empty and boring as the next – yesterday, today, tomorrow… what did they matter when you could not look to your past in fear of the pain nor envisage a future with anything but the same dreary routine? I knew it wasn't fair to be so melancholy, I had been alone for so long and I had become accustomed to it, outside of my comfortable home people were dying, suffering on the front lines, losing people they loved. But what did I care about men, they did not care for me. They mistreated me, despised me. At best they were indifferent to my suffering, so why should I give a toss for theirs?

I had just finished my muscle exercises – in the past years I had begun to notice a very slight decreased in muscle tone and strength due to lack of movement and whilst that didn't worry me too much, I had no desire to go out, I was losing some of the control over my limbs I learnt in my early years. I still remembered Victor's glee when he had seen my hand eye co-ordination, perhaps it was not because he was proud of me but was instead proud of his own genius for creating something so human and talented, but I was still happy I had made my father proud. So every day I practised for an hour, I did muscle strengthening exercises and I walked around and around the house, forcing my gait into an almost cat-like grace.

I did the same with my vocal muscles, strengthening them daily so that I never went hoarse from disuse, except when I drank so much from my father's supply in the cellar that I could barely speak a word in the morning. My voice became stronger and deeper, loud and confident, assertive even, undistinguishable from any respectable gentleman on the street.

I was just about to move onto these vocal exercises when there was a knock at the door, a loud rap, pulling me out of routine. For more than five decades I had stayed in that house and not once had a person came calling except for the delivery boys, invited by brief phone calls down to the shop. I had told the delivery boy that I was an old man – which to be fair had quite some truth behind it, I was after all 98 years old, by now – though I felt as if I had been alive for a thousand long arduous years. I was simply staring at the door, pausing in my path from the stairs to my study. This was most irregular.

A brash voice called out, loud and snotty,

"We know you're in there." I raised an eyebrow, _oh really? _I thought sarcastically. What gave me away? The lights on in the night, the fact food and papers were delivered to me, or the fact this house was officially registered to have one occupant – even without the true owner's knowing it. The Frankenstein family had steered clear of this house, even having forgotten that Ernest had given me free reign of it, partially due to it having been given to Victor to study in and partially due to the fact they believed it haunted_. _Quite believable, I was there after all.

The voice was louder this time, "answer your door, coward!" I called back, loud and confident,

"I am no coward, madam."

"You cower away in your big manor whilst better men go to war, you're a coward in my eyes."

"And you are blind in mine."

"I've seen you moving about in that 'ouse. The boy who brings your papers spied on you, he said you're an able bodied young man with all his limbs and sense, and yet you let others go to war for you!"

"It is not my war to fight in."

"It is the war of all men of this country to fight in!"

"I was born in Germany, madam, and raised in Switzerland, my father might have born here but he lived and worked in those places; I may lend myself to your rivals or to neutrality – I settle in the last – before I fight for the Allied forces, who have done nothing but mistreat me since my arrival."

"You are an Englishman! I hear it in your voice and you live here, unless you're a spy!"

"What use is a spy who never leaves his house?"

"Then you are merely a coward!"

"Now you're simply repeating yourself."

"And I shall do so until you go to war for your country."

"Then, my dear, you shall scream yourself raw because I have no intentions to fight."

"It is 1916, sir, you will have no choice soon. Conscription will force you cowards to fight and when you are dragged away I shall stand and laugh as you go."

I scoffed bitterly, hearing her feet disappearing down the garden path, whispering to myself,

"I believe you would do that whether I walked out of here with my dignity or not, you need merely see my face."

I found a white feather on my doorstop in the morning, alongside my paper and my supplies; I simply tucked it into my pocket and laughed. I was no coward but I was no solider. This was their war to fight – why should I fight for the freedom and safety of those who would, in a second, take mine?

Unfortunately, what she had warned had soon come to pass. The big mouthed woman ran to the recruitment office.

I had, for the first time in years, ventured out to the garden; I was planning to grow some herbs which would help to soothe some of the scars, which now burnt with the latest treatment. I probably should have just stopped using it but it seemed to have provided the best results so far. They were much better than I remembered them being when I was first born, although still by no means unnoticeable – but occasionally the reknitted skin would become aggravated and there were only a few balms to soothe the itching.

I had stopped to take a break, leaning against the trunk of the large willow tree in my front garden and sipping from a cup of tea, curious when I heard voices. I ducked back into the shade, hiding myself as best I could to watch the progression of two men up the pathway. A small gathering of women was forming at the foot of the garden, apparently they had walked from the village to see the coward, who had been so rude to that stupid woman, tossed out and forced to fight. I recognised her voice as belonging to a plump woman in her mid-twenties, who was stood – bold as brass – at the front of the group, horsy teeth revealed within a self-satisfied smile. She looked like the cat who'd stolen the cream, beaming away at my misfortune.

The two men picking their way up the pathway were dressed in their uniforms, looking like they'd brushed and polished especially to make a good impression on the women behind them. It seemed to be working; the women were absolutely glowing with pride over the soldiers doing their bit, compared to my hiding away. The two soldiers didn't look too happy though, carrying their documents and muttering away, just loud enough so that as they passed me on the path I could hear them through their bristling moustaches,

"I can't believe we missed one Sergeant, they'll have our heads on the block for this." The more senior of the two tucked his cap under one arm and reached a gloved hand up to rap on the door, replying primly,

"It is not our fault Corporal, we are simply the messengers – the war office is the one who missed him off the record. I suppose he'll have some excuse."

"You suppose right, gentlemen." They jumped about a foot in the air, spinning around to face the tree I had hiding under, as the woman all clutched their chests in shock, the older man gasping and wiping at his brow with a handkerchief, although I wasn't sure if that was the shock, his worry or the heat,

"Mr Holmes, you almost frightened the living daylights out of us!"

"I'm not Mr Holmes, I'm afraid." The younger one frowned, flickering through his documents,

"That can't be right; the registered owner of this building is a Mr Ernest Holmes-"

"He may be the owner but I am the occupant." The men continued to look puzzled before the elder one reached into his pocket and took out a pencil and pad,

"Might we know your name then, sir? So we can change the documents and get your records adjusted."

"You might not."

"Sir, I am afraid we have to have your name if you are to be enlisted."

"Then I have absolutely no intention to give you my name." The woman shouted out,

"I told you, I did! He's a coward, he won't go to fight. You'll have to force him, it's the law-"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Dobbs, we can take it from here. I'm afraid she is correct, sir, it is indeed the law. All able bodied men between the ages of 18 and 40 must be enlisted to fight in the war, do you not wish to fight for King and Country?"

"You expect me to fight for a man in a crown who cares nothing of me, the ordinary – well perhaps not ordinary but you what I mean – man and who knows nothing of me, and country where I am a foreigner, and pariah, who has been treated with cruelty." I scoffed, unconcerned as I lit a cigarette, adjusting my shirt and braces to look more presentable and heading towards the table where my teapot waited, keeping my back to them,

"It is the law sir; we should all be honoured to fight for our families and our country!"

"I have no family to fight for sir. They despise me, they cast me out, and even if that were not the case, most have them have returned to Geneva – they are safe in a country which wants nothing to do with this war. This house, this is my sanctuary – I wish only to remain here."

"You will have to enlist, sir, or we will have to bring the police."

"Do so, you'll find me gone if you do, I'm good at disappearing when needed."

The women were muttering viciously amongst themselves and then suddenly the back of my head was struck by a small rock, hurled by the head woman,

"Turn around and face us, coward!" I raised an eyebrow, though they could not see it,

"Excuse me?"

"You heard what we said. Show us your face, look us in the eye and say you will not fight, you weasel."

I pivoted slowly on the spot, scowling and entirely aware that the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, illuminating me with a bright bathing of gold, showing even nook and cranny on my scarred face, telling them my story without my saying a word.

There was a collective intake of breath, the women gasping and fluttering their hands as if they would faint at any second upon the sight of me,

"You are right when you call me a coward for hiding, you are wrong for the reasons you believe I hide for. I am not hiding from the war, I would gladly fight and die if my own people and my own family were in danger but that is not the case. I would happily go to my death for just a moment of freedom, if I were able to gain my freedom from this war, but neither is that the case.

"The fact of the matter is I would be fighting for strangers who would loathe me even as we stood staring down a gun together, even as we died as brothers in arms – who would be frightened by my very looks – but I would still fight willingly to help people, though I admit they would never do the same for me. The fact is, I am a coward for hiding and I do not wish to fight, not because I am afraid of dying… but because I am afraid of leaving my home, of people seeing me. They were not so kind last time, nor do I suspect kindness now – even now you're filled with bile and hatred."

The woman at the front, Mrs Dobbs, had her mouth wide open, those horsey teeth revealed in her aghast expression,

"He's a monster he is! Look at him, the devil's incarnate- I knew him a harsh man but now I know him a loathsome one as well-!" The prim voice of the Sergeant, authoritative and calm,

"That is _enough _Mrs Dobbs." She turned her expression to the Sergeant,

"But look at him sir! He's-"

"He's a man, just like I am and just like my young Corporal here. Would you call your husband a monster if, God help him, he came back scarred from the wars, with unimaginable disfigurements?"

"Of course not, my Alfred's a good man!"

"And how do we know this man is not?"

"He's- he's a coward." A woman to her side spoke up,

"He has every right to be if people like you treat him this way! And to be quite frank, Elizabeth, I think you may be the monster here, he looks like a brave chap to get by with such hardship. I hope you never have to feel pain like that which he will have suffered."

"I- well, I-" The other woman in the little group that remained, the others slowly leaving to allow us our privacy or walking away unsteadily to recover from the shock, took her friend by the arm,

"Come on, you've made quite enough of a spectacle of yourself today."

Soon, it was only the two soldiers and I who remained, and one of the women shooting me one last lingering look, a soft smile and polite nod. I was utterly dumbstruck by what had just occurred and I had to fight to keep my expression impassive although I fear she saw the emotion in my eyes, before I turned away, ducking my head as I was overwhelmed by their kindness. No-one had ever stood up for me like that before. Nearly sixty years alone and one day amongst people brought me kindness. Perhaps it would not be representative of the population as a whole but damn it all if it weren't a start. Perhaps I had misjudged the utter hopelessness of my situation.

A hand clapped down on my soldier,

"Now my good fellow, I'm afraid we've barged in on you rather. We'll leave you to it-" He turned to leave but I caught his arm,

"Wait, is it not the law that I be conscripted into the army?" He winked, tapping the side of his nose,

"Well, Mr No-Name, you don't appear to be on my register. I think I can make an exception just this once-" I shook my head,

"No, you will not. I'll fight."

"Sir, you don't have to-"

"You have shown me a kindness today; I shall do the same for you – if I can indeed fight that is."

"You'll have to pass a physical but apart from the facial scarring I expect you will be deemed fit, you seem one of the best specimens this village has to offer at the moment – young, fit and healthy, there aren't many of your kind left."

"Then I will fight, the events of today have shown me that the world is changing… attitudes are changing."

"They will have to I'm afraid. I have fought many wars, seen men as scarred as you and learnt to accept them for what they are. But it was rare… now however- well, some men coming back from the trenches… those women will have had little experience of it but they are scarred and disfigured to a point where no man can imagine they could survive and yet they do. It is a miracle they are still alive, some of the burns they have received… not even their own mothers would recognise them. You are one of the lucky ones."

"These are not war wounds, more's the pity. I wish I could say they came from bravery and self-sacrifice but I was born with them I'm afraid, simply a reminder of a dreadful past."

"The future may not be so terrible. If you come back from the war… attitudes will have changed."

"Then I shall have to take that chance of freedom."

**AN. And just a little shout out to Chubaby15, my new friend from America, who has been making a book cover for this story for a school project, I'm sure it's wonderful and I hope my story helps to earn you the very highest grades!**


	11. 1916 - Private Tommy Frankenstein

**AN. I just want everyone to applaud Chubaby15 for her lovely new cover image she made for this story, which I've now put up so if you haven't seen it yet have a look. It looks great doesn't it?!**

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The Creature POV

The day I arrived on the camp was the day I knew that attitudes had not changed as much with the general public as the gentle souls in my garden. The soldiers who had wandered up my garden path winked, in the younger man's case, or nodded at me from across the field but did not come over as the field was filled with the hustle and bustle of men training or arriving for duty.

I quickly realised that the men did not keep their opinions to themselves, as I shouldered my pack and headed to the meeting point, keeping my head down but hearing the whispers none-the-less and seeing the pointing fingers out of the corner of my eye. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them going about their business, observing the best that Britain had left to offer. I was well aware that rationing had gotten to the men and that these were not the fine young gentlemen handpicked at the start of the war – many of these were the men had been deemed too young or too weak or too old, who hadn't fit the bill the first time round. They were the slim pickings and many of them looked no older than sixteen, boys dressed in uniforms. In comparison, I was a tall and well muscle man, filling out my uniform and casually lighting a cigarette as I went. I had always been tall, people were shorter and slimmer from the time I had come from, Victor had at least engineered me to have an ideal frame but now I looked even more out of place, compact – if wiring – muscle stood out in contrast to slightly hollowed cheeks and men shortened by childhood rickets.

An officer was parading around, checking on the training and laughing with his public school comrades. I could see the weight of the world behind the laughter however, though it was nowhere near as terrified as their working class men… the ones who would die first, the ones who were more expendable. I doubted any one truly knew what we were letting themselves in for, what awaited us on the other side of the channel. But we knew it would probably end in our deaths, the list of the dead and the obituaries filled more and more pages of the papers every day, men coming home as corpses. And I was expected to be one of them. Small chance.

An elderly officer, most likely brought out of retirement due to the shortage, came forward to welcome the new recruits, lining us all us for inspection. He checked his papers for the names of every man he spoke and then would promptly let out a small dissatisfied noise as he wrote something down. It was a minute before he reached me, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at the records, looking slightly surprised when he saw my scars,

"We don't appear to have any records for you Private. It merely says your age and address. I see you're from the Holmes house on the outskirts of the village, I've lived in this village ever since I was a lad and I've never known there to be anyone there. What's your name boy?" I raised an eyebrow, he called me boy yet in reality, even if he didn't realise it, he was at least twenty years my junior,

"That would be yours to pick, sir." He tucked his papers under his arm, sizing up to me despite – much like most of the other men – just reaching my chin,

"Is that cheek, boy? I won't stand for cheek."

"No, there was no cheek intended sir, my father never named me and I never had a mother."

"Then what do people call you?"

"There haven't been people to call me anything for thirty years."

"I've never heard anything like it, it's rather bizarre I must say-"

"I don't pretend to be anything otherwise, sir."

"No, I doubt you could with a face like that. Where did you get the scars boy?"

"My father, sir." I knew the impression that would give; they thought my father a child-beater. He thought him abusive. No, he was not abusive… he could never bring himself to raise a hand to me, even if he had pointed a gun. He had never physically harmed me. No, he was not abusive… neglectful, however. The man spoke quietly, an edge of sympathy in his voice,

"What shall I call you then?"

"I told you sir, it is your choice." The man hummed, clearly unsatisfied with that response,

"What was your father's family name?"

"Frankenstein, sir."

"I suppose we shall have to give you something generic. Tommy's a popular name for us Brits, isn't it lad? The Tommies, the Fritz call us. How about that, lad? Tommy Frankenstein." That was how I came across my first name, it never quite fit. I never really took to it as anything other than a convenient label, in my mind I was simply me – or the creature I suppose many called me. I was not Tommy, it was simply too generic and British. What I wouldn't give to be generic, one of the crowd. But I stood out like a sore thumb, always had and always would… even when the scars were long gone, so the name always felt a bit loose fitting for me. Though it served me well enough during the war.

"That will do fine, sir."

"It'll save me calling you Private What's-his-name if nothing else. Come lads, time to get you to your beds, we need you fresh and ready for tomorrow, you have a long day's training ahead of you."

"Yes sir," we barked back in response, saluting our superior, who nodded at me as we marched past.

Later that evening, as I lay in my bunk looking up at the canvas roof above my head, I heard sniggering from some of the young lads, the ones who I had thought looked no older than sixteen,

"Oi, Freak-enstein." I turned my chin slightly, without taking my eyes of the canvas of my tent,

"How very amusing, you substituted Freak into my name. How may I help you?"

"What happened to your face? How'd it get all- weird lookin'?"

"I told the Officer earlier, my father gave me these scars."

"What, couldn't 'e stand the look of your ugly mug or somethin'?"

"No, I suppose he couldn't."

"Can't blame him. Can you lads?" There was a murmur of agreement, as the lad climbed out of his bed, tiptoeing up to mine with a nasty sneer on his face, lit up by the flickering candle in his hand,

"Well, that's for you to decide but I am scarred, there's no changing that. Beside, you had better learn to watch your tongue… because after this war, it might be _you_ or your father or your brother coming home with the scars and then you'll understand what it's like to want a kind war."

"I'm getting out of this war alive and unmaimed, unlike you. Freak."

"That's for your God to decide. Now, if you don't mind, I would quite like to go to sleep now."

"Act as high and mighty as you like, Freak," I'm afraid to say that word followed me around long before it fell from Donovan's sneering lips, "but we all know why you're here. Coward."

"I'm here now, aren't I? I came when I did not need to, when I was already free of duty, and knowing what was to be expected of me, and what I would face. There is no glory in a war like this; there is only death and suffering. You may think me a coward for keeping out of it but you are fools to run in headfirst, and a fool can be parted with his life just as easily as he can his money. Goodnight." And with that I rolled over, blew out his candle and went to sleep, blocking out their sniggering voices.


	12. 1916 - Somme

The Creature POV

Twelve weeks of training was all that received and suddenly we were being shipped out to France. The men still hadn't warmed to me, I hadn't expected them to nor did I particularly care that they hadn't. I spent most of my time when I had free time on my bunk bed, looking up at the campus and wondering what would happen over there. I wasn't afraid to die; I wasn't entirely sure that I could. But if my some chance I did… what would happen to me? I doubted I would go to be with Victor or with my Elizabeth, if she had indeed passed by now, to be in Heaven was too much of a luxury for someone who had done the things I had done. I wasn't even sure I believed in Heaven or God.

After all, what God would allow a man on Earth to tinker around and play his role, create life when that was God's duty? Victor had created a man, he had played God and admittedly he had been punished with the havoc I reached but if there was a God, why would he have allowed it? And why would he have let me been so hideous and so hated? How could a benevolent all-knowing being allow me to go years alone and unwanted, suffering and taking my hate out on the world? I didn't want to think of a God who could let me do those things and let me feel so much pain, it was just easier to believe he didn't exist.

Especially when I crossed the Channel with my fellows and went into the Trenches; living in those conditions, feeling the true consequence of war, seeing man fall like flies. God could not exist, not in this Hell. I could see that as I trudged along the planks, hit by the wall of stink and heat of a Summer in France, the men packed in tightly in the squalor and squatting side by side, trying to keep their heads below the trench line for fear of being shot between the eyes, eyes which were dead and glassy as they remembered fallen companions. I shook my head in disgust at vermin crawling around in every cranny, feeding of those nearby fallen comrades.

In the night, I lay in the dirt and mud that seemed omnipresent, even when it had not rained for weeks, listening to the sound of the guns overhead, the incessant noises that would not let me sleep, there was a chuckle across the narrow trench from the man sleeping no more than a few inches away from me. He mumbled,

"Can't sleep?" I struggled to sit up, as he copied my action,

"Who could with those blasted guns overhead?" He shrugged, lighting a cigarette and offering on to me, I gladly accepted for something to do, glancing around at the other sleeping soldiers,

"You're wondering how they're managing to sleep aren't you? I suppose you just get so exhausted and used to it, you just drop off… but the dreams," he shook his head, "I've never had so many filled with nothing but blood and death and explosions. And I think soon it will be all the worse, and we'll have more to fill our nightmares with." I nodded grimly, puffing on my cigarette,

"The Final Big Push they're calling it." He laughed,

"I've heard them say the same about every battle, this will be no different than the last. Perhaps some of us will reach the other side, perhaps we'll take some ground, two weeks and Fritz will have it back and we'll be a few hundred men poorer."

"How long have you been out here?"

"Only a few months, I was home on leave for a while and now I'm back to serve. God I wish I was back home now." I nodded, I could understand the feeling. Oh to be free of the squalor and the pain, to go back and sit in my house and finally break out of the heartache I had felt for Elizabeth, to finally break free and just live again. I would be free, when I got home. I wouldn't mope around my house; I wanted to be like these men, to go out there and to have a sweetheart waiting for me at home. It may take a hundred years to find someone like Elizabeth, someone who would treat me so well and without prejudice, and love me back, but it would be worth that wait to finally be free of my curse. "You're that Frankenstein fellow, aren't you?" I blinked in surprise, looking up at him with a slight twitch at the corner of my mouth as I joked,

"What gave me away?"

"The scars aren't all that noticeable," he chuckled, "I'm rather colour blind; it makes me extremely good at seeing through camouflage, which is why I'm allowed out here, but they say I don't see colours at all. Your face is just a mass of black, grey and white and the scars don't really show up. "

"I had a fully blind friend once, couldn't see me and as such accepted me as his friend."

"What happened to him?"

"He died."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be, it's not _your _fault." He frowned slightly at the emphasis I had put on the your, clearly not sure if he had imagined it. "But my scars are noticeable, they're noticed every time I walk down a God Damn street, or go into a shop, or try and find work, or Heavens above I ever try and find a girl."

"What you haven't got a sweetheart?" I frowned at him, he sound almost surprised,

"There was one girl many years ago but no, otherwise I don't. You sound surprised."

"Well, I saw you earlier. You might be scarred but you're a good looking bloke underneath it and fair specimen of a soldier compared to this scrawny look, considering the slim pickings at the moment, I would have thought at least one girl would have noticed you."

"I've been away for a while." He blinked, the expression only just visible in the moonlight,

"Are you from the prisons then?" I laughed,

"No, not anything like that. I've just kept myself to myself, haven't left my house in a while."

"Well there's you mistake. I'm sure the girls would sit up and take notice nowadays." I scoffed, putting out the cigarette in the mud with a sizzle,

"I highly doubt that. We should get some sleep." He nodded,

"I suppose so. Do me a favour, don't wonder off too early. I'll introduce you to my pals, I've seen you going about your business without a friend in the world. I'm going to fix that. I'm sure they'll take you in and if they don't they can answer to me." I smiled as I rested my head on my arm,

"Alright then. Until the morning."

Sure enough, in the morning, I woke to find a small group hovering over me, big grins on their faces, the smallest of which – a terrier like boy with a huge grin on his face – patted me on the face to rouse me and urged me up,

"Oh look, he's awake at last. Come on sleeping beauty, grub's up." One of them, a lanky boy even taller than me who clearly had to duck to stay under the cover of the trench, offered a hand to help me up, which I gladly took, before being bundled down the trench towards the foot by a red haired boy with a big smile on his face. The man I had been speaking to last night, only a few years older than the others, grinned as he handed me my bowl,

"Bread and a bit of bacon, not much but it'll keep you going." I nodded gratefully, I didn't really need the food but I'd gotten into the habit of eating on a regular basis due to being around men 24/7 and not wanting to rouse suspicion. The whole group seemed to just accept me into their daily regime after that, there were a few funny looks every so often but they were decent chaps, playing cards together – I had been quite poor at first, having never played, but by the end I was winning every cigarette – as we paused around the small swigs of rum or brandy from our food packs or from their families back home.

The small terrier boy was called Rufus, which rather fit him, and from under his too big cap he told me about the pretty blonde he had met back in England, at one of the farewell dances that they were throwing for the soldiers. I had been given an invitation shortly before we left but politely declined. He had written to her every day and though they'd only known each other for a day, in person, he said that as soon as he got back he would kiss her right on the lips and ask her to marry him on the spot. He rambled on like a schoolgirl in love about how they would have five children, four rambunctious boys and one girl who would be his princess and who he'd spoil rotten. I smiled as they all teased him but I knew it was what kept him going, the dream of the future, of what he could have when he got home. So I wished him luck with it.

George, my night-time companion, was the son of a farmer, he didn't have a sweet heart but instead occupied himself with thoughts of going home to help his mother with her the farm, as the man of the business since his father had died in the trenches not long ago, which was why he had had his leave brought forwards.

The other two, James and Edward, were ordinary lads from a village, they're whole cricket team had joined up together but they were all gone now, they were the only two survivors left. They both had fiancées back home; James was going to be a telephone repairman I think and Edward wanted to take over his father's role in the local post office.

Rufus turned to me,

"What about you then, Frankenstein? You've been very quiet all this time, what's your story? You look like you'll be more interesting than the rest of us-" George shot him a look, nudging him,

"Hush Rufus, don't be rude." I sighed, putting my cards done and lighting another cigarette,

"No, no, it's quite alright. I suppose I have had a rather interesting life," I shook my head, "very interesting in fact." George leant forward,

"Go on then, if you don't mind telling us."

"Alright then. I suppose I should start with the fact that I was born in Ingolstadt, Germany," there was a brief flicker of outrage, "don't worry lads, I'm not part of the Bosch. My father was in fact English, a scientist. I never knew my mother. I was born with these scars, I cannot remember a time without them, and he was repulsed by them. He left me as soon as I could walk, abandoned me." They stared at me in shock, as George muttered,

"How ghastly!"

"In my early days, I just wandered and fended for myself. I briefly came into the care of a blind man, my first friend and the one who taught me to talk and to understand complex ideas. I read and memorised much of Paradise Lost under his teaching and he helped me to find who my father was… but his family found out about me, saw me as a devil and thought I would harm them. They chased me away and soon after they all perished in a fire."

"I'm sorry, you don't have to on-"

"I would prefer to. No-one's known my story for some time, and who better to tell but the first people who have asked? Who've started to accept me?" They nodded, looking deeply saddened, "I went to find my father. He was impressed by what I had learnt with my progress without him, I told him that I didn't want to be alone anymore. But he left me again to carry out some experiments, to make a-" I stumbled here, realising I was revealing too much, "to make a friendfor me, adopt someone or something of the like, who would keep me company. But by that time he was utterly mad, I went after him and he- he killed her." They stared at me, aghast,

"He killed your friend?"

"Yes, a lonely girl with no-one to care about her… I suppose you could say she was mentally not quite there and, well he attacked her and fled back to Geneva, to his family, married his wife, who died shortly after. They say he killed her too, no-one knows because he went running off to the North Pole and never came back."

"What happened to you then? Did you go after him?"

"Yes, but eventually I turned back and went to London, where I faced much cruelty during the reign of Queen Victoria, as an adolescent. I was put into a freak show for a year, their main attraction, and one of the last freak shows before they were shut down."

"That's terrible-"

"Yes, it is. But they thought I belonged there… so there I stayed. Until one of the acrobatic dancers fell in love with me, a beautiful young girl called Elizabeth, who killed my 'master' who kept me there and ran away with me. We were on the run for some time… and then her brother found me and forced her to come away and she… well I believe she had a family with him and passed away not long ago. I wouldn't know, I haven't had contact with the outside world for some time."

"That's- I've never heard anything like it!" Rufus nodded,

"How dreadful and tragic- someone should write a book about it!" I chuckled,

"I suppose they should, maybe one day I'll publish my memoirs but that was a highly censored version you were privy to-"

"You mean there's worse things than what we just heard?"

"Oh much worse." They exchanged looks, "no I won't tell you." They just chuckled and George laid down his hand of cards,

"Full House. I've won this round Frankenstein, cough up a cigarette and one swig of your best rum thank you very much." I just grinned and handed it over.


	13. 1916 - Over the top

The Creature's POV

The order had come at last, the final order... the order to their deaths. We were going over the top, they were going to be shot down by the hundreds and now we were preparing. I watched with pity as men trembled, scared and knowing what was about to happen next, I felt their pain but I didn't share it, if I did indeed die then I left no-one behind, no-one's lives would be any worse off if I did indeed go to my death today. And that was if I did in fact die.

I snubbed out my cigarette where I stood, amongst my motley crew, all of us staring up at the rim over which they would most likely meet their dooms. The men were checking everyone was ready, calling orders that fell on deaf ears, forcing us into line and shouting encouragement. And then suddenly the whistle was blowing and the men were running frowards, scaling the ladders and climbing onto No-Man's Land, the first and last trip they'd make over the rim. For a second everything was silent, the gunshots were gone and all that remained was the deafening sound of my own elevated heartbeat in my ears and the rasping breathing of my companions. We exchanged looks and then their muffled battle cries replaced their breathing and they were going over and I was still there, staring up into the heavens where gunfire whistled overheads, the bullets just a blur over my head.

Someone was pushing me towards the ladder, shouting orders in my ear. I did not hear them but I kept moving, scrambling over the top and crawling through the bodies that already littered the ground, some caught in the barbed wire that lined out trenches, some old and rotting, stinking to the Heavens with their bloated flesh and grotesque injuries. Ahead of me the figures were falling and suddenly the sound returned to me in a roar, a deafening barrage of desperate cries and thunderous gunfire, as I watched people falling.

And on I ran. I got to my feet, slipping and sliding over the mud and the rotten flesh, through the rats and the barbed wire, ignoring the sting as the barbed wire sliced through my skin, crying out as I felt something bury itself in my leg. I kept limping forwards through, towards the enemy trenches, in the hope that somewhere on the other side my friends were waiting. I felt something bite me again, over and over, blood spurting freely and making me shout out, but I kept limping onwards, pulling myself on with my lands when I needed to and hissing as my wounds screamed out in pain.

I made slow progress but slowly, and surely, I made my way to the otherside, wiggling through the barbed wire and slipping down into the enemy lines. It was deserted, they were elsewhere, so I just waited. I waited for a long time, but no-one came except Germans, shot down quickly and efficiently with my pistol, as I tended to my wounds. Eventually a couple of lads made their way through to my section, climbing through and recognising me instantly, they gaped at the German's littering the trench but I said nothing, I just lit a cigarette. An officer made his way through, claiming the area of trench and sending man to fetch the wounded and bring them here, if they were still alive.

My wounds didn't sting so much now, my flesh too dead to feel pain as a normal man would. I didn't let him see my injuries but instead helped to search the bodies, in an attempt to find my friends.

It had been a slaughter; hundreds, even thousands, of men littered the tiny gap between the trenches, so many lives lost for so little land. I shook my head, carrying on my progress. Most were dead, or far beyond help, I dragged a few pack to the trenches and laid them down in the bunks available and then returned. Then finally, after nearly an hour of searching, I heard a tiny cry,

"Frankenstein?" I froze where I was inspecting a dead man, picking up his tags so they could inform the family,

"Rufus?" I could hear the coughing of a dying man and turned to where the noise was coming from. A shaking, bloodstained hand, rose into the air and he called out quietly,

"Over here, oh God, Tommy... I'm here." I practically ran to him, putting pressure ion the wound on him leg,

"You're going to be alright Rufus, you'll be fine." He shook his head, his throat rasping, barely about a whisper and punctuated by his tongue darting out to wet his cracked lis,

"No I'm not, none of us. God Tommy, I watched them all die... I saw them just ahead of me... our friends. I'm going to die aren't I?" I felt tears prick in the corners of my eyes and shook my head,

"No, you're going to be fine."

"That girl... my girl, she's called Emily, can you tell her, tell her that I love her? There's a note in my jacket, I kept in in case- in case this ever happened. That's what people should do, isn't it? Leave a note, telling their loved ones how much they meant each other. And she meant so much to me-"

"You're going to have give that note to her in person, I'm sorry but I'm leaving with at least _one _of my friends at my friend."

"No, Tommy, you're not, I'm sorry. But you were a good friend, I wish I could have known you better."

"Me too," I was shaking now, my voice trembling but the tears never coming, I couldn't even cry for my friend, my very nature would not allow it, "I don't even know where you're from or your full name."

"Private Rufus James Sherlock, born and raised in a little fishing village called Polerro." He smiled and then he was gone, dead in my arms, as I held him close and sobbed, choked out dry tears and wished that he could come back with me, to see the girl again.

It was later that evening, as my now diminuitive regiment sat around for our food, that someone noticed the bulletwound in my shoulder, I hadn't even noticed that one. The other three that were scattered around my body had been reduced to bleeding aches but I paid them no attention, I was used to pain. I was exhausted though, resting my head on the table, when one of the men called out,

"Private Frankenstein's injured!" I blinked and lifted my head,

"Sorry?" He stared at me in disbelief,

"Your shoulder!" I looked down at the bleeding mess just scraping the skin above my collarbone and winced,

"I suppose I am-"

"Someone get a doctor." They were crowding around me not long after, someone cutting off my shirt to get a better look and everyone staring at my torso,

"Look at those scars, they're everywhere!"

"Forget about that Private," our Captain snapped, "look at those bullets in his side. Someone get the doctor, quick. How is he still conscious... Private Frankenstein, how are you even standing with those wounds." I shrugged, my heart was beginning to pound and I was exhausted,

"Adrenalin I suppose... I'm used to it, you can see the scars. I got used to pain a long time ago."

"Well, we're going to get those fixed up."

I was on the way to hospital much longer, although all I really wanted to do was just curl up on my bunk and sleep, to remember my fallen comrades and - in particular - the friends I had lost. They told me it was a miracle I was alive, I just nodded politely and rolled over to sleep.

One good thing came out of that day; I went home. I got sent back to blighty, I was even awarded a medal for my bravery that day - for the men I saved and the land I gained - but it meant nothing to me. Every one of those men who died beside me were a hundreds time braver than I could ever hope to be, they fought even though they knew they could not win, that they would most likely die. They were the true heroes. I kept my medal as a reminder but I hated it for that reason, that I had to remember the pain of losing my friends because of it.

I gave the note to that poor girl, watched her heart break as she tried to process the news. She was young and pretty, she'd have another chance at love, but she'd never forget my friend, he'd always be there in her heart, she had promised to keep the letters and the note, to keep her picture on her bedside table, preserving him in his youth, forever. I nodded and thanked her, told her how brave he had been and how sorry I was for her loss. And then I left her to her grief, I knew she did not want me there, the man who survived instead of her sweetheart.

I promised myself that day that I would never forget what happened and I never did, because later that day the next good thing happened. I went to the town hall close to my home and I signed the proper documentation registering my existence. I had my name at last. I would take his surname as my own, it was too perfect to not do so. And so Private Rufus James Sherlock lived on in me.

Sherlock Holmes.


	14. 1966 - An undelivered letter

1966 – A Letter

Sherlock's POV

After the war, I was good on my promise to carry on living, to heal after losing my Elizabeth, to make the most of my new life. The kindly Sergeant had been right, attitudes changed after the war. I came home a hero, I won medals for my actions in the war and women who passed me in the street smiled and thanked me, thinking my scars to be the mark of a brave soldier. They gave me flowers out of their gardens, giggled and flirted, even asked me to take them to dances, the men nodded and congratulated me on giving the German's a thrashing, the mothers handing me dinners on plates and showering me with affection that I had never expected. I smiled politely at them all, and excused myself with a tip of my cap, before carrying on walking. I had a freedom that I had never experienced before; sometimes I was still hassled, there were a few stares and hushed explanations to children in streets, telling them not to point, even a few comments shouted nastily from darkened corners but now I could generally walk the streets unimpeded, speak to people and go to the shops for myself. They were all so kind to me, so different from what I remembered.

I had trained after the war to use my scientific knowledge as a doctor, which certainly came in useful in the 1940's, when we were struck by war again. After all, why not use my knowledge? I knew more about the inner workings of a human body than probably anyone else alive, if I could be useful then why not try? And the wonderful thing was that the men who came back from war, scarred and with their lives shattered, they trusted me like no-one else. They just seemed to respect me and listen to me in a way that none of my other patients did, and in a way they certainly didn't act towards other doctors. They saw my scars, though they were increasingly less severe with every year that went by, and saw an equal suffering, a man who could understand what they were going through and help them.

I met and aided a lot of men going through that… I will admit that the two wars had changed me. I'd always been slightly cold and stand-offish, a protective instinct, but so much suffering and pain had just made me worse. I withdrew more from society; not physically, if anything I had far greater freedom to walk around now, but emotionally. I saw so many man wounded and dying, lost so many people and friends, that I cut myself off from their suffering, to stop people bonding with me and affecting me so. I'm not proud of it but war changes us all.

It was in 1966, however, that I left the medical profession – the wars of my time were long over and the scarred men no longer needed me – and I returned to my home in Oxford, having rented a small flat in London for most of my post-war life, and I went back to my research. I returned because I received a letter sent from the family I had never expected to hear from again,

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I apologise for being so informal but I am afraid it rather fits the situation. I have recently been searching through my family heirlooms and was astounded to find a letter, addressed to you, which was never sent. It appears to be from my great-great grandmother. I was curious I will admit to find that my ancestor had run away with a sideshow attraction and never in my wildest dreams had I imagined you would still be alive, let alone that I would find you! You see, she did not give your name and it had no envelope or address, the letter was merely written to her Angel. _

_She enclosed a newspaper clipping from when the two of you ran away, with a tiny picture of you to help people identify the 'criminal'. I had thought the mystery man was to forever remain unknown and I would not even be able to ensure the letter went to his headstone, so that Elizabeth's words could finally reach her beloved, but then – by chance – I saw a small article in the daily paper about your hospital, about the work you did with crippled soldiers. All of the senior staff were lined up together and I instantly recognised the scars, although they were considerably more faded than they were, but you were not a day older! Now, I know that my great-great-grandmother did not lie in her letter, about your apparent immortality._

_I did not enclose said letter because I wish to speak with you, to tell you at least some of its contents before you read it. They will most likely shock, possibly even appal, you so I think it best we speak in person. Please come to the family home, her childhood home, to meet me on the 2__nd__ of April._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Madeleine Holmes_

Which was how I came to be stood on the steps of the Holmes estate, in my best clothes, preparing to meet her. I reached up, knocked quietly and then stood back on the doorstep feeling more awkward than I had in a long time. I felt like it was my first day out in the world again, as if it was all new and unfamiliar and I didn't know what to do, fiddling with my waistcoat buttons. My cold, confident exterior suddenly melted away, I didn't feel like the accomplished veteran doctor with an impressive reputation as one of the best surgeons in my expertise and research fields, I felt like the naughty creature who had snuck up the pathway behind this house over a century ago and stole into the house to wait for Ernest. The door opened to reveal a butler who looked at my scarred face, and apparently recognised it instantly,

"Come in, sir." I nodded and stepped inside, "can I take your coat?" I shook my head, replying with a dry mouth,

"No thank you." He nodded and gestured with a hand,

"This way." I followed behind him, feeling entirely wrong footed. This was the second time I had been invited into my family's home, the first time by someone who actually wanted me here and certainly the first time I had been received as a true guest, coming through the front door as a respectable man rather than a sordid family secret to be hidden away. I pulled myself up to my full height, forcing my face to be impassive and my back to be straight, my entire body exuding a confidence and comfort in my environment which I wasn't feeling. I had long ago learnt that even if I didn't fit in somewhere, if you could pretend to look the part then you could fool anywhere.

"Is that him Edward?" The man nodded at the pretty dark haired woman who ducked her head around the door a second after speaking,

"Yes, miss, shall I bring him in?" She grinned, her eyes settling on my as she addressed the butler but made it clear who her words were meant for,

"Of course, come in Sherlock." I nodded, stepping into the room whilst she looked me up and down, and I did the same. She was a tall woman, with a pretty doll like face that reminded me of Elizabeth, although it was framed by straight chestnut hair rather than scarlet curls and didn't have the same adorable constellation of freckles that I remembered on the soft features of my long-ago lover, "well you are nothing like I expected." I raised an eyebrow, "not that that is a bad thing of course! I was merely expecting-"

"You were expecting the horrifically scarred, beaten and starved creature from that photograph enclosed in the letter." She flushed, something which looked entirely unfamiliar to her elegant face, as if she had never had anything to be embarrassed about in her entire life. She drew herself up to her fall height, which – rather impressively for a woman – was almost as tall as me,

"Yes, I will admit that that is exactly what I was expecting. But you have clearly been busy since then, _Dr _Holmes." I nodded, before holding out my hand,

"The letter?"

"You certainly get straight to the point. Come. Sit down on the sofa with me."

"Ms Holmes, I don't have time to sit and chit-chat over tea, I have patients to see-"

"No, you don't. I phoned your hospital and told them you wouldn't be in for a couple of days, due to personal issues." I stared her down,

"What right have you to-?"

"You will understand that in a minute, Sherlock. Coincidentally, how did you get your name in the end? It sounded like it a source of great frustration to my great-great grandmamma that she could never quite name you."

"I took it from a friend I knew, some years ago now. Your name is of great interest to me too; how exactly do you have your great-great grandmother's maiden surname?" She smiled,

"She refused to change it, I think she always wanted to pretend that she hadn't married, and so you could find her if you ever came back. Whatever the case, she never took her husband's name; it was quite unheard of in those days but she refused, she even had the birth certificates with her maiden name for her children. Her husband was furious but I think the family were all rather happy since none of her brothers had children; otherwise the family name would have died out. Although, I suppose the true family name had already died out. Since then, our family has only had male heirs so we've all kept the name… I am the final Holmes."

"Oh? Don't you have any siblings?"

"No, unfortunately, my mother had many miscarriages before me and many after, I was their miracle baby. Not that that will prevent them for punishing me for the predicament I find myself reaching out to you over."

"And what predicament would this be?"

"All in good time. I feel I should tell you Elizabeth's secret first, it might make you more inclined to help me." I fixed her with a calculating look, trying to figure out what she was about to say but not finding anything in her face,

"I'm not sure how that would work but go ahead." She crossed her elegant hands on her lap,

"I guess there's no easier way to say this then to come right out with it… you were the biological father of Elizabeth's child."

For a whole minute, my usually brilliant and lightning fast mind went blank; I stared at her in utter shock. I was… Elizabeth's… what? What? _What?_

"I was _what_?"

"You fathered Edward Holmes, my great grandfather."

"That's not possible. Ms Holmes-"

"Madeleine, please, I am after all you great-great granddaughter, I think we can speak on a first name basis-"

"No, this can't be possible! I can't have children, it's not possible, I'm not even human."

"Well apparently you're human enough."

"No. No!" I stared at her, knowing that I looked wild, "it can't be true! It CAN'T be!"

"Stop being a child and stropping, and sit down Sherlock!"

"You have no idea what you have just done! I left her, I sent her away, and it broke both of our hearts. I left her because I thought it was better, the only thing that kept me going was the thought that it was for the better, so she could have a family and I saw how happy that made her, from afar. Now you've told me that _I _could have made her that happy - even happier because that family would have been ours together - that we _could _have been together, that _he _got to raise _my_ child, _my happiness._ That means it was all for naught, I caused her all that pain for nothing and… worst of all, I abandoned my unborn child to another man for no reason. Do you know how that makes me feel?" She looked at me and when I looked up from my hands, as they shook from anger and the shuddering of dry tears that were beginning, I expected to see sympathy. Instead, I saw tears and true regret,

"No, I don't… but shortly I will." That's when I understood, when she needed me now,

"You're pregnant." It was a statement, not a question, I knew the answer before she even nodded,

"I had an affair with a married man from the village, if my family found out… well they'd be ashamed of course, I'd ruin us all, but there are worse things to worry about than reputation… my father made it clear after my cousin found herself in my shoes, that if I ever did the same then he would make me abort. It doesn't matter that it's still illegal, or that it's a risk to my health, he would make me get rid of it… so he can't ever know. I won't let him kill my baby. So I need help.

"I knew that once you read the letter from Elizabeth, and knew that you had missed the chance to raise your own child, you would want to make amends. I thought, you would be the most likely person to want to help me, to redeem yourself by raising my baby, I don't know if I was right but you were my best hope, I can't risk going to anyone else. The rest of my family would turn me away in a heartbeat and would most likely tell my father anyway. Please, Sherlock, I beg of you, help me… help my _baby_."

I reached out and took the woman's hand, as she was reduced to a hysterical sobbing mess; she flung herself into my arms just seconds later. I held her there, awkwardly for a minute, until the sobbing subsided,

"You're a rather intelligent woman, I can see our relation now." She nodded, looking up at me in her heartbreak, making me sigh, "how do you propose we do this then?" She stared up at me through watering eyes,

"You'll help me?" I nodded,

"I will. As you said, I would like to make up for my past errors, and an answer had presented itself. How are we going to do this?"

"My mother and father will return home shortly; I have an idea."

She was right, just half an hour later, as I was finishing my second cup of tea and Elizabeth had finished explaining the plan, the sound of the butler could be heard near the front door,

"Come through, Lord Holmes, your daughter wishes to speak with you." The butler opened the door to reveal the Lord and Lady Holmes, both tall with aristocratic features, the man even showing some resemblance to myself, the nose and the cheekbones being quite similar,

"What in the blue blazes is going on here? Madeleine, what on Earth is the matter with you? Pull yourself together girl." Her mother went to her side instantly, gently taking her daughter's hand,

"Are you alright darling?" She shot me a poisonous look, "what have you done to upset my daughter?" I pulled myself up once more, straight backed and authoritative, as I often did when I was in the hospital with a room full of hysterical patients and their families, with the effect of silencing both fuming parents,

"I have come bringing some bad news. Last week, your daughter visited me with shortness of breath, fatigue and a sickly disposition-"

"Yes, she's been ill for some time," her expression changed from anger to fear, "is there something wrong?"

"Well I fear she may have a rare and undiagnosed pulmonary disorder, I am not a specialist but I will take her to see one shortly if necessary, but I feel she may just a need a simple treatment of isolation, since it could be contagious, and some bed-rest and fresh coastal air. I know a doctor near the sea who will gladly take her-"

"But we cannot send her away, she'll be miles away from home without us… we could go with her Edward, could we not?"

"I'm afraid not my darling, I have to be here to run the estate and there's a very large deal coming my way shortly from a London law firm, if I'm not here then-"

"Oh Edward, how can you speak of business when our daughter may be dying!" I sighed,

"Slight over-exaggeration Lady Holmes, your daughter will not be dying any time soon, she'll recover in a few months but I must stress that recovery will be much swifter with the fresh sea air. I am sure she will enjoy the peace as well, although I would not advice visitors. Conditions such as this will most likely only become more contagious as they develop. If I have your permission, I would like to write to my friend and ask him to take her on, as soon as possible." I looked to Edward, and was relieved to see him nod in confirmation, "very well. I shall accompany her by the end of the week."

It had all gone off, rather surprisingly, without a hitch. By the end of the week I was taking her in my car and driving her to my home in Oxford, to wait out the few months.

And that was how, on the 17th of October 1966, I came to be perched on the side of the exhausted mother's bed, holding a tiny defenceless baby boy by the name of Mycroft Holmes.


	15. 1966 - Baby Mine

1966 – Birth

It had been a long and difficult birth; she was a small woman, even smaller with the stress and the worry eating away at her, and she didn't have the hips for childbirth. If it had been a few years ago, when I was young, she would have died before the baby could have even been born but I rushed her to the hospital in time. They had assumed that I was the father… I didn't tell them they had got it wrong, since it meant I could stay with her. I saw how confused she was during the labour, how agitated she became and how much her muscles ached, I was a doctor, I knew the warning signs of eclampsia. I had gotten her to the hospital quickly and the baby was delivered by caesarean, numerous doctors comforting me and telling me it was going to be alright, even though I knew it wasn't when I saw the seizures. I sat next to her on the bed, her nameless son in my arms, and I knew that she didn't have long. She was exhausted, at death's door, I don't think she even knew we were there as she succumbed to the fits, the baby seeming to know what was happening and stirring in my arms, crying,

"Hush, little one, there's no sense crying for a woman you do not know." I smiled down at him, feeling my own tears choke me; she had been my friend, over the past few months, I had looked after her and protected her, and we had come to a slightly tense friendship – tense in that she was in fact my great-great grand-daughter and she was going to give her baby away to me.

I didn't have long to stay by her side, I didn't even get to stay until she was gone because suddenly I heard raised voices,

"Where the bloody Hell is she? Madeleine Holmes, where is she?" I slipped out of the room, hiding around the corner with the baby pulled to my chest, because I knew our presence could bring only terrible consequences,

"Mr Holmes, stop! Please, we have some news-"

"Save it for when I've seen my daughter. I thought that doctor told us she would be fine."

"Doctor? What doctor?" It was the mother's turn to speak now, confused as she replied,

"The doctor that came to our house! He told us she was having pulmonary issues and that she should come to the coast; he had scars, and was tall and pale if I remember correctly. He must have been here-"

"There was a man here by that description but we don't think he was a doctor, he was the father-" The man spluttered,

"Father? I'm her father!"

"No, I didn't mean he was her father; he was the baby's father." I could practically hear the blood draining from their faces as the mother replied with a trembling voice,

"Baby? What baby?" The nurse sounded utterly shocked as she replied,

"Her baby? You mean she didn't tell you? You didn't know that she was pregnant?"

"She had a baby?"

"Yes, a couple of hours ago, unfortunately there were complications with the birth, eclampsia."

"Is she- is she going to be okay?" The nurse must have reached out to put her hand over the distraught mother's by now, I'd seen this perfectly choreographed dance, the tango between grief and comfort, for years in my time as a doctor,

"I'm afraid not; she doesn't have long."

"And the baby?"

"With the father, the last time I checked." Lord Holmes was bristling again,

"I'll kill him; our daughter, my little girl pregnant – an unmarried mother! We'll be ruined; he's probably after our money." The mother was sobbing now, as she screeched back at him,

"Shut up Edward, now is neither the time nor the place! Our daughter is dying and you're worrying about our reputation?" There was the squeak of a chair, as he apparently collapsed into it,

"Yes, yes, of course. But what will we do? What will we do with the baby? It will have to be given away, we can't be seen to raise our illegitimate grandchild… unless of course you want to-"

"No," she sniffled into a handkerchief, "too many bad memories, I can't. I can't raise her baby knowing that the poor little thing is the reason for her death, I'll resent the babe for the rest of my life and it wouldn't be fair."

"Then what do we do?"

"We let the father have it; plain and simple. Now let us go say goodbye to our daughter, whilst we still have the opportunity."

I didn't stay after that, I took my opportunity and I fled with the baby, returning to my home. It felt so dreadfully quiet without her there; I was used to hearing the sounds of her moving around, of her humming and making meals for us. But I didn't feel lonely, not really, now I had a tiny life in my arms, depending on me to raise him and love him, it was a wonderful feeling, filling me with a warmth that I'd never expected from another person's baby.

I suppose you could say he was quite cute, with big blue eyes and a dark tuft of hair, reaching out for me with podgy fists and crying when I didn't respond. I sighed and gently rocked him, he wanted food which I couldn't provide, I could give him formula but it wasn't the same. Luckily, I had befriended a woman in the village for this very purpose, she thought me a widower since she had never met Madeleine, and she had recently lost her own baby, so she was only too happy to act as a wet nurse, living in the little cottage of the grounds where the farmers would have lived many years ago. She was to be the baby's mother, we would later tell him to call her mummy and she would love him dearly; she was a small woman, soft and round with rosy cheeks and a bright smile, she was into her early forties when we first met and clucked as much over me as she did the baby. But for most of the time, it was just myself and the baby up in the house, since she didn't live there with us.

On that first night, as he spent many hours wailing – it was a good thing I did not sleep very often since he was a sickly baby and I doubted I would have gotten any sleep in the coming months if I'd wanted it – I had walked round and round with him in my arms. It was as I looked into her room, where just a few hours ago she had been alive and healthy, that I found a little envelope on the mantelpiece, a letter I'd long ago forgotten, although it had been my main purpose for seeking her out in the first place.

It was about seventy years old now, written in Elizabeth's last few years, from what Madeleine had told me she had written it just a week or so before he death, Alzheimer's had begun to claim her I knew and she's died peacefully in her sleep I'm glad to say.

_19__th__ November 1898_

_My dear Angel,_

_I do not know if these words will ever reach you, and I do not know if they have any right. I stopped writing to you all those years ago in the hope that it would allow you to move on, that you would forget me and to find another to love, and I stopped writing because I was a coward. There was one thing I wanted to tell you in those letters and I was too cowardly, to divulge a terrible secret which may break your heart; you left me for an honourable reason, it is a pity that that reason did not come to fruition, for we have a child together. You left in fear that you could never give me a beautiful little baby and for all these years I have known the truth, that you gave me the most beautiful baby in the whole world. You gave me my darling little Edward and now he is nearly fifty years old and you have missed the chance to raise him because I was a fool, I did not know if you would come back for us and I could not face running away. And then before I could make up my mind, I had another child and was trapped, unable to take two children from a man who thought that they both belonged to him. I was a fool and now I have a life and a family but all I can think about is you, because I am selfish and cruel._

_I know that you will not love me anymore, my sweet man, but I am glad of that. In our time together, I knew that I was not to be your true soul mate, you deserve to find someone who gives you that spark of life and grants you that soul you desire so dearly, as I know you will someday receive, I know then that you can be a true man and be so very wonderful. And you have all eternity so never give up hope that you will find that soul, you deserve that happiness and God will grant it to you._

_I hope that when you find this letter you are at peace; that you no longer think of yourself as a hideous monster, who may not be human but you will always be a man in my eyes, and you are beautiful and loved. You are a wonderful being, my love, and I hope you can finally accept that. I wish I could see you again but I am growing old now, I am nearly seventy , and you are no doubt still young and beautiful and would no longer want me, and they say I am losing my mind to a sickness of my memory. No doubt they would read this letter and say that it is a symptom but I know you were real, that you are still real, and we loved each other. And at least I still have that picture, of the man I fell in love with before he became you, the man I ran away with, to prove that to them._

_I have been thinking of you more frequently now-a-days, now that Edward is fully grown and my children have grown up and left me, and had children of their own. I wonder if I could run away and find you but I don't even know if you even still live in your old home. I may never get to send this letter to you. I wonder if that might be for the best; that you never know the truth. Perhaps it is kinder that you do not know the truth about the child and the life we could have had together._

_One day I hope to see you again, but if not then I will settle for saying this; I loved you, I love you and I will _always _love you. Goodbye my dear._

_Yours, with my heart and every ounce of my love,_

_Elizabeth_

_P.S. If you are still in need of a name, I met a lovely young man who reminded me very much of you – though he was even more prim and slightly less beautiful - by the name of Mycroft. It seemed odd and perfect, perhaps you could try it?_

I chuckled, bouncing the crying baby slightly,

"What an odd name. Mycroft." I frowned as the baby in my arms stopped crying, I looked down at him, "what? Why did you stop?" Suddenly, red faced and furious, he resumed his bawling, "is that why you stopped? I said Mycroft?" He stopped again and I shrugged, "well, I suppose there will be no issue of name then, Mycroft Holmes."

And I could have sworn he smiled up at me.


	16. 1967 - My gift to you

1967 – Christmas Day

I had the day to myself today, with only Mycroft for company, since his 'mummy' was currently visiting family in the North, although she had left an assortment of handmade soft knitted toys for his presents. I tried to tell her that he didn't know what Christmas was yet but she didn't listen, she hadn't the year before either. I had eventually just dropped the matter, smiling fondly. I was woken to the sound of his stirring in the crib at the end of my bed, a soft snuffling noise that I had grown used to; I didn't sleep often but I had made an exception for Christmas Eve, knowing that is was famously a 'magical evening'.

I smiled sleepily as I heard him gurgling,

"Sherwock? Sherwock?" I had never told him to call me dad, I wasn't his father and I never intended for that to be my position, I was his guardian and from an early age he would know that. I simply didn't want to be someone's father, that gave me the possibility to fail in that role – as Victor had – whereas there were no expectations of love or duty from a guardian, except to look after the child. Not that I didn't love him, he was a quiet and intelligent baby and I held him very dear to my heart, he was a shining light in my life.

"Wait a minute Mycroft." I sat up, running a hand through my dyed curls and yawning,

"Cwismas!" I groaned,

"You're mummy taught you that, didn't she?" He just smiled at me brightly, from where his little dark haired head was peeking over the top of the foot of my bed, a toothy grin obvious beneath twinkling eyes, as he reached out with podgy hands,

"Mummy! Where mummy?" I sighed, reaching down to the end of the bed and over the bars, lifting him out from the crib to pull him to my bare chest,

"She's with family."

"Family." He banged his fist on my chest, making me laugh,

"Yes, we're family. You're my great-great-great grandson." He screwed up his face in concentration before trying to repeat the phrase,

"Gway-gway-gway-gway gwanson?"

"Close, that's one too many greats." I yawned one more time, stretched with difficult and then pushed myself upright out of the bed, "you're getting a bit heavy Mycroft, I may have to cut back on your feeding, I think mummy's been slipping you one too many treats when I'm out of the house." He just looked up at me grumpily, before reaching up and tugging one of my curls, quite hard I'll add,

"Chocwate." I raised an eyebrow at him,

"Yes, that's exactly what I meant. Maybe later, it's time for breakfast first."

We ate in reasonable silence, Mycroft tipping half his bowl of porridge into my lap and demanding chocolate at one point, and then sat down in the living room, where I left Mycroft to crawl on the rug and reach the newspaper. He was quite proficient in crawling at this point, and seemed to delight in pulling himself up on my antique coffee table, reaching for a toy just out of his reach. He must have gotten bored of not being able to reach it however because suddenly he was pulling himself along the coffee table and using other pieces of furniture to support himself. Suddenly, when I looked up from the paper, he had completely let go of the armchair he had been using a second prior and was unsteadily walking on his own to the Christmas tree, hands stretched out and eyes fixed on a particularly shiny bauble, paying no attention to the fact that there was a cushion in his way, which would no doubt trip him and send him tumbling into the tree.

I threw the paper down and jumped across the room, catching him around the waist just as he tripped and tumbled forward, sighing in relief that he hadn't hurt himself, not that you would know that from the fuss he was making,

"Shh, Mycroft, stop! You're fine, you're not hurt! Calm down!"

"Sherwock! Sherwock! Fell!" I just chuckled, bouncing him a little more firmly,

"Yes, I know, I saw. But you're alright, you don't need to cry, I'm here." He looked up at me through tear filled eyes, sniffing and rubbing at his running nose, I pulled my handkerchief out and gently tended to the runny nose, "I'm here Mycroft." He had stopped now and then reached out, wrapped his arms around my neck and pulled me tight, in a surprisingly strong grip,

"Here." I rubbed his back gently,

"Here, Mycroft, I'll always be here." I stooped down, supporting him with difficulty and juggling him with the present in my other hand, from under the Christmas tree he'd almost knocked over, "I've got something for you. I know your mummy buys you toys and this probably seems like the worst gift in the world but one day, I know this will be of great importance to you, one day you're going to be a great man and I'm going to teach you and build you into him. But before then, I'm going to teach you to read this, maybe it'll be a long time until you understand, but this book will be your making." It was a book about politics, about how to succeed and how to make your way into the career, about rules and regulations; maybe he didn't understand what it was now, but he seemed to know that it would be important one day and he stroked the thick leather bound pages with a reverence. I placed the book on my shelf, where I kept all of my medical manuals and the scientific journals that I spent my days reading, looking forward to the day when I could teach Mycroft to read the words and become the man I knew he'd be.

After that came the more age appropriate presents; the shiny cars, the plush toys and painted tin soldiers, everything looked at with an intense interest for a couple of minutes, before his eyes returned to that book. I had wondered if it would even be worth giving it to him, he didn't understand what it was or what was inside it, it wasn't to be played with or read for a long time but now I knew it held a significance and a promise for him that he might not understand but was there none the less. It had been my father's, God knows he was never a political man but I had found it in his collections, I had known that it was meant for Mycroft the second I unearthed it.

His mummy had left a lovely blue knitted scarf for me, which I immediately put on and would never take off, even years into the future, and a few colleagues from the hospital had sent me a bottle of whiskey which I was later enjoy when Mycroft was in bed. After the gift giving we sat down to a small Christmas lunch, pulled a Christmas Cracker – luckily it hadn't frightened him with the small bang but instead made him clap his hands together and giggle – and then wore out paper hats. As the day wound to a close we sat on the sofa before the slowly dying fire, Mycroft lying on my stomach as we listened to the wireless, before slowly dozing off to sleep, Mycroft's hands clinging tightly to the front of my shirt.

It was the most normal Christmas I had ever had, the first I'd ever really celebrated – certainly the first I'd spent with another person. It was towards the end of Mycroft and my easy relationship, where he was young and naïve, we only had a year after that before he got more perceptive and less accepting but for that year… everything was perfect.

**AN: Anybody have any childhood memories you want Mycroft to have of Sherlock? I've got some ideas but if you have any then prompt me and I'll try to please.**


	17. 1970 - Four Years Wise

**AN. Bit of backstory repetition here, it's necessary! And (hopefully) not boring.**

* * *

Sherlock POV

"Sherlock… who are you?" I frowned, hand poised over the light switch; I had just been tucking Mycroft into bed, the four year old seeming exhausted and about to drop off any second. We had been talking about my research, about the work I was doing as part of a research team at Oxford University, since it was just down the road. Even though he didn't understand most of it, it always calmed him and sent him off to sleep, hearing me speak slowly and reassuringly about my day, it was like a bedside story for him, engaging his brain and yet allowing him to drift off at the same time. He was such an intelligent little boy, and I knew that would only increase in the years to come.

Today however, that technique of 'story-telling' to get him to sleep seemed to have failed, as he repeated his question upon seeing my shocked face, "who are you really?" I didn't move for a second, then whispered my response,

"I'm your guardian." He frowned, apparently not satisfied by my response,

"And who's mummy?" I pretended to chuckle, but it sounded forced even to my own ears,

"She's your mother, of course."

"I don't think she is." I raised an eyebrow, turning back and crossing over to the bed, sitting beside him as he sat up against the pillows,

"And why do you think that, Mycroft?"

"Well, if she was my real mummy, then I wouldn't need a guardian would I? I would just have my mummy to look after me." I sighed, shuffling to sit next so that my own back was propped up against the pillows, with Mycroft pulled into my side,

"Not necessarily; it's difficult for single mothers without a husband to provide for them, most mothers have a father to help. Since your mummy doesn't, I'm here-"

"But you're not my father."

"No, unfortunately I'm not." He smiled slightly at then, then carried on,

"Then why are you here? Other than to help mummy… how did you get involved in our family?"

"Well you mother needed help and since I was distantly related to her, and owed the family a favour, she called me in to help."

"You said, 'I _was_ distantly related'."

"Excuse me?" He looked at me intently, dark blue eyes narrowing slightly,

"You said it in the past tense. If mummy was really my mother then you would _still_ be distantly related to her. You would say, since I _am _distantly related." This boy was far too quick, I was actually very impressed, clearly my genes were still bouncing around the family tree, "I know she's not my real mummy. Where's my real mummy?"

"Why do you want to know that? You love your mummy don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't need to know your birth mother, do you?"

"No, I suppose not. But then… who's mummy? If she's not really my mother, and my real mother was the one to ask you to be here, then who is she?"

"She's a very kind woman who agreed to act as your mother figure and who loves you as if you were here real little boy, just as you love her and I love you."

"So you were asked to look after me by my other mummy?" I nodded,

"Yes, I was lonely and I'd done some bad things in my time, she wrote to me and asked for my help, to redeem myself in a way, so I agreed."

"What is my real family like?"

"Rather insane, I suppose."

"Really? How insane?"

"Well your… wait a second, let me figure out the relationship. Great-great-great-grandfather – I think that's right – was a man called Victor Frankenstein, he was undeniably a genius, but he was also very certainly mad." He looked up at me with wide eyes, from where he had tucked himself under my arm, poking me in the side to get me to go on, "he was a scientist, and he owned this very house we live in, which is why it's so old fashioned. It was passed down to me and I brought you here to live with me. Whilst he was here he learnt everything he could about the human body, how it worked and how it was made, many of those notes in my study were his, and he's the reason I took up my field of study. But then he ran away to Germany and stole body parts, the German people used to refer to him as _Die Leichenräuber, _the body-snatcher, he's part of German folk law in Ingolstadt where he worked, and with those body parts he built a man. It was a sad and lonely man, with a hideous face but a good heart, but Victor abandoned him."

"Why?"

"Because he was so hideously scarred and Victor couldn't see what lay beneath those scars, to the son he had created, who already loved him even though he was just a child inside and new to the world."

"But you said he had a good heart."

"Yes, he did. In the eyes of everyone, even his father and creator, he was a freak - an absolute monster – but he was a good man. And I live in hope that one day that creator will be again."

"He's still alive."

"Undoubtedly."

"How? He must be really, really old."

"Yes, he is, the oldest person in the world I would wager."

"How is he still alive then?"

"Because he's not really a man; Victor didn't give him a soul, someone once said he'd only get a soul when someone loved him enough and I like to think that that's true. When he loves someone with all his heart, they'll be that soul for him and make him into a real man. But for now, he's not a real human man. So when Victor abandoned him, that creature just kept on going, never ageing and never dying, stuck eternally in his hideous body and always alone."

"Did he ever meet Victor again?"

"Yes, he went to ask for a friend, a woman this time-"

"Did Victor make one?"

"Yes but the madness had already consumed that once brilliant man; he killed her in a fit of rage, to stop his monstrous creatures from living and having children and condemning the world, even though the creature knew in its heart that all it wanted was a friend, that it would have been happy and kind and good if it could be granted just that."

"What did it do after Victor killed her? Was he sad?"

"Yes, she was the first woman he ever loved. He was very sad at first, and then he was angry instead… and anger is a greater motivator than sadness. After Victor killed her, the creature swore to have revenge… so he hurt his master's family. He had already killed people before – accidentally of course – that time it was the master's brother and a family who had had the misfortune of upsetting him. But now he deliberately struck out and hurt his master's wife, killing her, and then he lead Victor away into the snow of the far north, where the creator died in the arms of the creation."

"That's terrible, he sounds horrible!"

"Yes, he was I suppose."

"What did he do after that? Did he apologise to Victor's family?"

"Yes, he went to find the father after spending many years in solitude but found that after the death of his sons, and the woman he saw as a daughter, the father had died and left the estate to the youngest son, who was left alone after the creature's rampage. He was sent away-"

"As he should have been!"

"And for a year he was kept in a freak show, laughed at because of his hideous face. The eldest daughter of his creator's brother, the one who sent him away, found him and they fell in love, they even had a child together but he left that child to be raised by the step-father, not knowing of its existence. Then, many years later, the newest generation of that very child's lineage is… you."

"Me?" He looked disgusted, wrinkling up his nose, "I'm related to that horrible thing?" I felt a stab of pain in my heart, "but it's a murderer." He looked utterly horrified at being related to me, and I almost clutched at my breaking heart,

"That monster was a good man once-"

"It killed people!"

"It didn't know any better at the time," I tried to point out.

"You just pity it."

"Of course, I do, I bear scars too, I know the pain and rejection it felt, it suffered greatly from the self-loathing and the loneliness, and it was mistreated by everyone around it, and it became angry and lashed out, anyone would."

"But your scars aren't that bad, I can barely see them, if the creature was put in a Freak-show it must have been really horrible and disgusting, so it should have been there!"

"Or perhaps people were just desperate to see something ugly, to make it feel terrible and to show no sympathy for the poor thing!"

"It's not a poor thing, it's a horrible bully. If it's still alive, then is it still hurting people?"

"No, it stopped that long ago, it seeks only to do good now."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why? If it was only hurting people because it had been hurt then why did it stop? Surely people are still hurting it."

"Perhaps it realised that it couldn't do it anymore, it decided that it would be best to simply observe the world and no longer try to be involved, to try to be loved for who it was and punish people when things did not go its way… because they never would. People change Mycroft."

"It's not people, it's just a thing."

"One day you'll understand Mycroft, you'll know why it did everything it did and maybe you'll pity it."

"I doubt it."

"Fine, but I hope you'll change your mind when you know the truth."

"What truth?"

"I think that's a tale for another time." I tucked him back into bed, "goodnight Mycroft, pleasant dreams."

"Night Sherlock."

I climbed off the bed, got to my feet and crossed to the light switch, plunging the room into darkness even as I heard the soft snuffling of his snores. I closed the door gently behind me and then slowly sank down the wood, sitting at the foot of the door, feeling like my heart had been wrenched out of my chest. If I ever told Mycroft who I really was, what I had done, would he still react like that? Would he still despise me and ran in fear?

I sighed, only time would tell I suppose. But for now, I would be content to raise him and care for him, to love him and to know that he loved me back. Even if he didn't really know who that love was being given to, not really.

* * *

**AN. And we're back to depressing; aren't children cruel? But don't worry, from the opening chapter we know that Mycroft eventually came to accept Sherlock so it isn't all lost, thank God.**

**I may write a more cheerful chapter next time; what lovely childhood memories would you like? I'm going to try and put together a (written) montage of little happy things i.e. learning to ride a bike, going swimming, beach holiday. Any ideas, just stick 'em in a review or PM!**


	18. Writing Montage

**AN. Hey look, a massive chapter as a new year's and Christmas present combined! Store it up guys, to get you through a harsh winter, because I can't foresee any more coming after this chapter…**

* * *

**_1970 – Swimming_**

**_4 years old_**

_**Mycroft POV**_ (**AN. I know, aren't I full of surprises today?**)

I was sitting up on Sherlock's shoulder, it was really amazing because he's really tall and since I'm short – he says one day I'll be tall like him and like my birth mummy was apparently – I can't normally see much but now I could see lots. I can see everything from up here, like that cow in Farmer Joe's field, which I can't see most of the time because there's a big hedge, and I can see the sun coming up. But Sherlock keeps telling me not to look in the Sun because it will ruin my eyes, he says, but it doesn't hurt that much, it just makes my eyes feel a bit hot.

We're going to have a picnic today at the park. He doesn't have much time off, which upsets me because it means that mummy and I are on our own and sometimes I think he doesn't want to spend time with us. Me and him don't always get on, he's mean sometimes – he doesn't let me do things like go out on my own, or read his books, or eat all the puddings mummy makes me and he spends lots of time at work, or in his study, and won't play and he can be really mean to other people and say horrid things about them, even though he doesn't seem to think that he's being mean, he's just telling the truth, and forget about me for hours on end. I know he doesn't mean to, mummy says he is used to being on his own so he forgets about me sometimes. But today he's got a day off and he's said its time for alone time, and mummy's off visiting family, so he's giving me his "undivided attention" as he said. He's even got a picnic hamper with lots of nice things to eat that mummy's given him for me. Him and mummy aren't always nice to each other either, I know they're not married so they don't have to be but sometimes I wonder why. She treats him like he's her naughty son, because he spends lots of time not telling her what he's doing, he doesn't do the shopping and he messes up the house and does experiments. She says I'm her good boy, which makes me happy. I suppose we're both her children, and Sherlock is more like a brother than a daddy to me.

We're at the park now, and he's put the picnic blanket down and is lifting me off his shoulders and down onto the tartan blanket,

"Mycroft, are you there?" I turned to him in surprise,

"Yeah, I'm here, where else would I be?" He gave me that look he always gives me when he thinks I've said something stupid, which is quite a lot even though mummy says I'm very smart for a little boy,

"I meant, are you paying attention? Since you seemed to have vacated your brain for a minute."

"I was thinking." He chuckled, sitting down next to me on the blanket, he does that a lot, chuckling. Mummy says he's not like that with anyone else, that he's really sad or serious most of the time and people think he's mean, I can sort of understand why since I've seen him talk to other adults but he's normally nice to me, even though he forgets about me sometimes. He calls me clever and says he'll look after me and we'll always be friends and laughs and plays with me a lot.

"What were you thinking about?"

"I want to know what we're doing today."

"Ah, well that's a surprise." I frowned at him,

"I don't like surprises."

"You'll like this one."

"Is it chocolate cake? Because mummy already told me she put one in the picnic hamper."

"No, it's not chocolate cake."

"Okay… can we eat the chocolate cake?"

"Yes, we can eat the chocolate cake, whilst we wait for the sun to rise and for it to get a bit warmer, the surprise will be too cold at the moment." I pursed my lips, "no, you won't figure it, just eat your cake and stop trying."

I just frowned at him, before accepting the cake he had given me, "you know, if you don't stop eating so much at a young age, you're going to grow up and struggle with your weight in your later years."

"I like cake."

"I know you do, that's why I'm warning you now."

"Don't you like cake?"

"I don't eat very much of anything, as you know."

"Why not?" He fixed me with that look he was always giving me, that look when he knew something but didn't want to say it,

"I just don't need to."

We ate without talking, Sherlock didn't look like he wanted to talk, and I watched all the other people turning up after us. Seeing mummies and daddies playing with their kids. I wondered what it would be like to have a proper family, I love mine but I have another family somewhere where my real daddy is, even though my mummy's not alive now. I wonder if he has a new wife and a new baby who he loves, I wonder if he misses me lots. I miss him too; I love Sherlock but he's not my daddy, he's just Sherlock and he's never tried to be my daddy.

"What are you thinking about Mycroft? You look like you're away with the fairies." I looked up at Sherlock, he might be sad if I told him, he thinks he's all I need, and he is most of the time, but sometimes he isn't,

"Nothing." He just shook his head,

"You can't keep secrets from me, Mycroft." I know I can't, he knows everything, but someday I'm going to know everything too, and he'll teach me how to read people and know what they're thinking, because he _always _knows what me or mummy are thinking. I don't think he even knows that he does it, reads us I mean, he just does and knows everything about us. He said that's how he saw that mummy needed a new baby, after she lost her other one, and would like to be my mummy, even though they had never met when he asked. "Fine, I can see you don't want to tell me. Shall we go to the surprise then, I think it'll be warm enough now."

"What is it?"

"You'll find out in a minute."

He packed up the picnic stuff, and said he won't throw the rest of my cake away, I think he will because he's always saying its bad for me but he says he'll put it in the fridge for me to eat later. When it was all in the hamper again, he picked me up, put me back on his shoulders, and began walking,

"Where are we going?" I could feel his shoulder's bouncing as he chuckled,

"You'll find out in minute."

"But I want to know now!"

"We're going over there, okay?" I stared at the building in the distance, not sure what it was, but it only took us about a minute to walk there and then Sherlock was taking me inside. It was a large, unclean room which smelled of damp, making Sherlock wrinkle his nose, and it had lots of benches and hooks on the walls and mirrors. He handed me a pair of shorts, but I just stared at them, not understanding, "why do I need special clothes to be in here?"

"They're for swimming Mycroft, they're swimming trunks. They have an outdoor pool which we're going out to in a minute, after we finish getting changed, and I'm going to teach you how to swim."

"Really? That's the surprise?" He laughed,

"Don't look so dubious Mycroft, you'll enjoy it. Hurry up and get changed."

We were the only ones in the changing room, I get the feeling that Sherlock had wanted it to be like that so he could change without anyone in the room. He doesn't realise that lots of the ladies we talk to find him really handsome and mummy says she would marry him if he ever asked, even though she's at least ten years older than him. But he just thinks he's really ugly, even though he wasn't, except for the scars on his face but I don't really notice them anymore and I think most people don't really care because he's handsome underneath them. He pulled his shirt off as I was changing into my trunks and I noticed that his back was covered in really big scars. I winced and looked at my knee, there was a little cut there from when Sherlock had tried to teach me to ride my bike a week ago and it had really hurt and I'd cried a lot, but it was much smaller than any of the cuts on his back and there was only one of them. They must have been really painful, I could only imagine.

"Mycroft, don't think I don't see you looking." I think he has eyes in the back of his head, "you're wondering how I got these scars?" I nodded, too shocked to say anything, "well they're not from the same time as when I got the scars on my face."

"I know, the scars on your face are much paler, so they're older." He smiled,

"Very good, you're learning. I was born with the scars on my face and a few longer ones on my body. The scars on my back came from some cruel people, who deliberately hurt me for upsetting them, and the ones on my chest, these ones," he pointed to the large knotted circles of scars, "were from a gun, when I was a soldier." He pulled a t-shirt on quickly, "but these scars on my body are a secret, okay? You're not to tell anyone else, not even mummy, understood?" I nodded and he lifted me up, "let's go swimming then."

I wasn't very good at swimming, we found that out over the next couple of hours. I kept sinking and thrashing. Sherlock made it look easy, drifting peacefully on his back and moving without trouble. A couple of giggling ladies came up to talk to him, asking him about the wet t-shirt he was wearing, he quickly sent them away with comments about how they were "insecure about their weight, and trying to gain justification" or were "adulterous and cheating on their husbands with men at the office". I don't know what cheating was, was marriage a game or something? How could you cheat at being married? I don't know but something I saw that day was that mummy had been right, Sherlock was meaner to other people, or he just sat at the edge of the pool, watching them swimming past and muttering to me things that he knew about the people.

"You see that woman there, Mycroft?" I nodded, looking at the blonde lady,

"She's got three dogs, how can I tell that?" I stared at her really intently then shrugged,

"I don't know."

"Look at her arms." I looked at them more closely,

"They've got scratches?"

"Good, each set of scratches is a different width and length, there are three different types of scratches so there's three dogs."

"What about that man, what do you know about him?"

"Mid to late forties, a competitive boxer in the past, you can see that his nose has had to be reset after a particularly hard knock, probably boxed in university, and a smoker now, mostly cigarettes, the staining on his fingers are from rolling, but he's now a professor of... literature."

We went on like this for the rest of the day, with Sherlock just telling me things that he saw about people and explaining how he knew them, until we were wrinkly like prunes and I was starting to shiver, at which point he plucked me out of the water and led me back to the changing room.

For the next couple of days, mummy was very angry at Sherlock because he let me stay in the water for too long and I got a cold but I didn't mind, I had fun. Although mummy always went with us when we went swimming after that.

* * *

**_1970 – Learning to read _**

**_4 years old_**

**Sherlock POV**

Mycroft's hands reached out, landing on the book on my desk and running over the dusty pages,

"I want to read it." I just smiled at his enthusiasm,

"Not yet Mycroft, you're too young, you won't understand it."

"But it's mine! I want to read it."

"No, this is my book, I've had it for many years. Your book is up there," he looked up at the leather bound book up on the highest shelf, the law textbook that had belonged to Victor and to his father, the magistrate before him, and reached out, "no, not today. You can't read it yet, but you will one day, when you're older and you know how to read and can understand what it says." He sat down heavily, landing on his heavily padded backside,

"It's mine, I want to read it."

"Saying that over and over won't convince me, nor will being a stroppy little baby." He gave me a dirty look and I sighed, giving in and picking the book on my desk up in one hand and Mycroft in the other. He giggled as I lost my grip slightly on his waist and he slid through the gap between my arm and side, jiggling about slightly, "come on you little monster, I'll read you a story instead. You're only going to _look _today, okay? Then I'll read it properly."

"Okay!" He grinned up at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes, as I sat down in my armchair, where my father had sat many years ago before me, and pulled him onto my lap, with big book resting on his chunky knees,

"So, we'll start with the alphabet-" He waved me off, an action I'd never seen performed by a four year old before, and slammed a chubby finger down on the first line, where I had opened to the first chapter, stumbling as he proudly announced,

"I am by birth a Gen-Genev-"

"A Genevese," I prompted him, astounded,

"I am by birth a Genevese," he still stumbled slightly but the misprounciation made it no less impressive, "and my fa-family is one of the- the most distin-distingooshed?

"Distinguished, Mycroft, not distingooshed." He just carried on, ignoring my help,

"Of that repu-republic. I am by birth a Genevese and my family is one of the most distingooshed of that republic. Is that right?" I just stared at him before responding,

"Yes, that's right. How did you- how did you learn to read?"

"Mummy reads to me, she says I'm special and smart and taught me."

"You're very smart Mycroft, that's wonderful. But how about I just read for now and you follow with your eyes? Does that sound alright to you?" He nodded enthusiastically and, without hesitation, I began to read, his eyes and finger following as he drank in the words. They didn't make much sense to him yet, he was too young now, and most adults wouldn't understand, but he was cataloguing them and learning. We managed to read into the small hours of the morning until at last we both fell asleep in the armchair, the book resting against Mycroft's chest.

I woke in the morning to find that Daisy, his mummy, had come in the night and placed a blanket over the two of us, turning off my reading lamp and shutting the curtains, the smell of cooked breakfast wafting up from downstairs. She really was just like a mollycoddling mummy to the both of, but I wasn't objecting. At times when I was in the mood to eat, she made the most exquisite Eggs Benedict.

* * *

**_1971 - Nightmares and protectors_**

**_5 years old_**

**_Sherlock POV_**

Sleep wasn't a very regular occurrence for me; it never had been, I didn't need it and working in a hospital, being a soldier in bombed trenches, spending time in the far North with blizzards being a nearly hourly occurence were hardly conducive to a sleeping environment. I never expected being a parent to a small child would deprive me of sleep more than all of those things put together. In his infant years Mycroft hardly ever slept at night and since I spent most of my days working in the university, I couldn't very well catch up on sleep at other times, but now he seemed to sleep even less, often just from having nightmares.

Which brings me to tonight, I had just fallen asleep in the armchair in my study when I was awoken by the sound of screaming on the other side of the house; anyone who wasn't familiar with the sound would have thought that he was being murdered. I jumped up almost as soon as I heard the noise and rushed across to the nursery, throwing the door open and running across to his bed. He was almost entirely in darkness, except for a small slither of silver that slipped through the gap in the curtain and frosted the edge of flailing limbs, as he called out for help,

"Mycroft!" He didn't even hear me, as he sat up in bed and just screamed, panting heavily and sobbing, I took his hands in mine, worried that he might hurt himself, and called his name again, "Mycroft, I'm here. Stop! No-one's going to hurt you-" He was sweaty, feverish even, to the touch but suddenly his eyes flew open,

"Sherlock!" He scrabbled closer to me, clinging to my front and crying into my shirt,

"What's happened, Mycroft? What's wrong?"

"They're coming to get me, Sherlock," he sobbed, "they're going to get me!" I held him tighter, as he sobbed, rocking him gently as I asked in a hushed voice,

"Who is, My?"

"Victor and his creature! They're going to hurt me." I sighed, it wasn't long since I'd told him the story and now I wished I hadn't, I didn't realise how much it would scare him,

"No, My, they're not. Victor's long gone, he can't hurt you-"

"But the creature!"

"Isn't hurting anyone anymore, especially not little children."

"But-"

"No, My, you're safe and if either of them ever found you then they would have to get through me. I'd fight them a hundred times over if it kept you safe and you know what?"

"What?"

"I'd win. I'd always win, for you, I'll keep you safe. Okay?"

"Okay."

"No go back to sleep, little five year old boys need their sleep, especially when they have school." He pulled a face and rolled over,

"I don't like school."

"I don't think anyone likes school."

"Did you like it?" I chuckled,

"I didn't go, I had to make my own way in the world."

"Well, why can't I do that?"

"Because my way in the world was considerably more difficult than just going to school. Trust me, one day you'll thank me for making you go to school."

"Doubt it," he grumbled, under his breath,

"Well, I say you will and I'm a very intelligent man and you're a little boy so clearly I'm right."

"I'm a very intelligent little boy, you said so yourself!"

"Yes, but five years old doesn't match my wealth of knowledge from many more years spent on this earth." He crossed him arms, shuffling down into the pillow and getting comfortable,

"Fine but one day I'm going to be really smart and really powerful and you won't be able to tell me I'm wrong." I chuckled and, switched off the light,

"I have no doubt about that, goodnight Mycroft."

"Goodnight."

* * *

_**1971 - First day of school**_

_**5 years old**_

_**Mycroft POV**_

"Mycroft, put your clothes on."

"No." Sherlock was pinching the bridge of his nose, looking more annoyed by the second,

"I won't ask you again."

"I won't say no again, then." He was looking quite dangerous now,

"Mycroft if you don't get dressed this instant, I'm going to take every single one of those books on your shelf and I'm going to shred them, I'm not joking. You know I'll do it. And then I'll go and hide every book that I own, and put them under lock and key. Then I'm going to go down to the kitchen and make you watch as I put every single baked good, that your mummy thinks I don't know about, into the bin. Would you rather that happen… or just put on your uniform?" He would have done it, I know he would have, when he's in a mood like that then it's unavoidable.

So, still angry, I went to my desk and started putting on my uniform, "good choice. Do you need any help?" I made sure he saw my expression, making him just shake his head, "I'll be downstairs with your mummy, I think she wants pictures." I made sure he heard my annoyed groan, as he shut the door.

She took some pictures in the end, by some I mean about a thousand, she can be very annoying. Sherlock just stood by and let her torture me! Then he handed me my satchel, which is full of boring books – I know, I checked, I was excited when I got some books, I love books, but they just had the alphabet with pictures of things starting with the same letter and stupid things in them – before taking my hand and leading me out of the house,

"Sherlock, why don't we have a car?" He frowned,

"What?"

"Why don't we have a car?" I repeated. He looked at one of the cars driving past, a big red shiny one, "are we too poor?" He shook his head, an amused look on his face,

"No, we're not poor in the slightest, I used to be a doctor if you remember? I was a very good one too, I earned a lot of money and I saved it all up. We could afford a car if I wanted one, ten of them if I felt the desire." I pursed my lips in confusion,

"Then why don't we have one?"

"I said, if I _wanted _one. I don't want a car however."

"Why not?" He grimaced, I like that word, I read it in a book the other day,

"Because they're strange and unappealing to me. Where I come from there weren't any cars around, there were trains and bicycles and ships but not cars."

"Why not?" He gave me one of those knowing smiles,

"I suppose you could say it was a place from another time."

"But one day you'll probably catch up and be modern won't you?"

"Probably. I use phones and buses already when I need to but cars- they seem to move too fast and roar too loud for an old soul like mine. Perhaps one day."

"Can I have a car one day?" He laughed,

"I'll think about it over the next twelve years, before you can actually drive one. But for now, we can easily walk to the places we need to get to, it's good exercise and I like the fresh air."

It didn't take very long, ten minutes later we were crossing the playground and he was taking me into a little classroom with bright yellow walls and childrens' scribblings on paper pinned up all over the walls. It was a mess of colours and happiness and other children my age running around, a few stopping to stare as Sherlock brought me in,

"Ah, Mr Holmes I believe?" Sherlock bowed his head slightly, "so formal," she giggled, "my name is Miss Flower." I saw the quirk of Sherlock's lips at her name and I couldn't help my own giggle, earning me a stern look from Sherlock.

I looked as Miss Flower, she was a tiny woman – at least compared to Sherlock, she looked like a giant compared to all of us children – with crazy blonde curls hiding a smiley face with bright pink cheeks, heavy makeup and big glasses which magnified – another great word that Sherlock had told me – her big green eyes. She bent over slightly, the bangles on her arm jingling and the heavy necklaces swinging out over her soft pastel dress, "and you must be Mycroft Holmes?" I held out a hand,

"Very nice to meet you." She looked delighted, taking my hand and shaking it,

"My my, aren't you both such gentlemen? Mrs Holmes must be very proud." Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably,

"There isn't a Mrs Holmes, Miss," he lips curled around the next word like it was a naughty word, "Honey." She didn't seem to notice the pause before her name and just smiled even more wildly, between trying to look like she was sad to hear that, "oh isn't there?" I looked at her in shock, shouldn't she be sad? No, she was looking at Sherlock like she wanted to eat him, ugh I bet she wanted to kiss him with those overly red lips. Disgusting.

"My other mummy died." She looked at me in surprise,

"Other mummy?"

"Yes, I have one mummy who lives nearby and looks after me and I had the mummy who gave birth to me." She deflated slightly, Sherlock watching us with amusement and a hint of disgust at the woman,

"Oh, so you have a stepmother or a future stepmother I suppose, if she doesn't live with you?"

"No, I have a mummy, but Sherlock doesn't love her. She's more of a mummy to us both, she looks after him too. He's my big brother." She stared down at me and Sherlock stepped in,

"No need to be look so bewildered, we're not biologically brothers. There's a fair bit of distance in our family tree but his mother asked for my help before she passed away. Now, as charming as this conversation has been, I must get to the university, I have work to do. Do you need me to sign anything or can I go?"

"No, no, you're free to go." He nodded before dropping to one knee in front of me,

"Right, I'm leaving now Mycroft. If you need anything, and this is not just for you to just moan at me about how unfair this is, you can go to office and ring them on the number I put in your bag, at the university. I'll pick you up in a few hours, try to be good and co-operative and not show the other children up."

"I'll try."

**Later that day**

**Sherlock POV**

I returned a few hours later, as promised, to find Mycroft sitting on the steps, on his own, with one of his books resting on his knees. He look utterly downtrodden, and smaller than I'd ever seen the boy, shying away from where the other children were playing as they waited for their parents,

"Mycroft? Whatever's the matter? Why aren't you playing with the other boys?" He looked up in surprise and then ran the last hundred metres gap between us, grabbing my hand and pulling me back in the direction I had come from,

"I want to go home. Now!" I gave up and let him pull me along,

"It cannot have been that bad!" He looked up at me sharply,

"It was horrible! I answered some of the teacher's questions which no-one could answer and read without her help and was just really good at everything and they were all stupid but they said I was a teacher's pet and annoying and they wouldn't play with me and the girls said I'm fat. It was horrid." He was tearing up now, staring down at the newly polished shoes he was wearing, as I picked him up in a hug,

"It does sound dreadful, but it'll get better Mycroft-"

"No it won't," he sniffed, "because I'm always going to be fat and smart."

"You're not fat Mycroft-"

"You're always saying mummy feeds me too much-"

"Well she does, it's unhealthy. But you're a healthy weight, and if it bothers you then we'll just feed you more vegetables and fruits, rather than chocolate and cake and sweeties."

"Fine, I'll be skinny. But I'll still be smart!"

"And whoever said that was a bad thing?"

"They did, they said it's annoying and I'm a swot and everything hates know-it-alls."

"Give it ten, maybe more, years Mycroft and I guarantee they'll be wishing they were as smart as you. Smart people run the country, they cure sick people, and they have big companies and fast cars and nice houses. Stupid people get nowhere in life. In twenty years, I know you're going to be the smartest person you can possibly be, and you're going to achieve so much. Forget about their name calling, it means nothing."

"It's hard." I stopped where we were stood, in the bustling town centre that stood between his school and our home. I sighed and glanced around, finding what I was looking for and then saying quietly,

"Mycroft, look around." He did as I asked, head whipping around, "what do you see?"

"Lots of people?" I smiled,

"More than that. What's unusual?" He frowned and carried on looking before apparently seeing what I was referring to and saying quietly,

"That woman over there's looking at you." I nodded,

"Why do you think that is?"

"Lots of women look at you, they like you. Miss Flower liked you."

"Well I don't like ditzy balls of love and fluff with ridiculous names. That woman's not looking at me because she thinks I'm handsome, she's looking at-"

"Your scars?"

"Yes, exactly. They're not that bad any more but a lot of the time it only takes one person to notice them from a distance," I led him over to sit on one of the benches, "and then they just continue to stare, never looking away. It's mostly curiosity now but it wasn't like that a few years ago, before my scars faded so much. They used to be much worse, people would compare me to the creature I told you about, Victor's creature, and the scars were indeed as terrible as his. People would shout at me in the street when they saw me, or run away, or scream, and they mistreated me, that's why I have the scars on my back. They hated me, they did more than just call me names." Mycroft looked up at me, tears still sparkling in his eyes,

"How did you deal with it?"

"I didn't, not really. I avoided it, hid away for years without leaving the house. It hurt but now I can look back and wish I'd had the confidence to just break away from it all and go out into the world, to be with the woman I loved and marry her, because I lost her to my own fears that I was a monster, like the people told me. Never listen to what people call you, do you hear me? Never listen, because they're wrong and one day they may cost you everything, I don't want you to hear them call you swot and make you hate your brains, your intelligence is amazing, it's your family heirloom from a family that won't acknowledge us, that's forgotten us. If you listen to them, you'll never become the amazing person you should be, so just don't. No-one's opinions matter except your own, not even mine or mummy's. Okay?" He nodded, still trying to understand what I had said but then smiling,

"Yes, I understand. You're right, I'm going to use my brain and I know just what to do."

By the end of the week he had a whole group of followers, I don't know how he did it but I think there was a fair deal of intelligent trickery going on, the manipulative little genius. He was never short of influence or confidence from that day on, that tiny little politician.

* * *

_**1972 - Science experiment**_

_**6 years old**_

_**Sherlock POV**_

"Okay, Mycroft, hand me the bottle of Potassium." I felt the little bottle being pressed into my hand and slowly unscrewed the top, using metal tweezers to pull a tiny amount out, gently dabbing it on the kitchen towel to remove some of the oil, "right, watch this." I dropped the little lump of metal into the bowl of water and watched Mycroft's eyes light up as he watched the tiny ball burst into flames and whizz around on the surface of the water,

"Can I try, Sherlock?" I chuckled, putting the bottle down,

"Maybe in a minute. Give me a couple of minutes, I'll get some more experiments for us to try." Mycroft had recently begun to show an interest in my work, but the experiments I could set up captured his attention more than anything. He just loved seeing the various reactions, I smiled fondly at the little boy perched on the stool, staring at the water as if expecting the Potassium which had burnt away to suddenly reappear, flaming away on the surface.

I went into the next room where I'd left my equipment and was just getting some of the various bottles I left lying around out from under the desk when suddenly there was a loud bang, making me jump out my skin and instantly putting me on edge, worried about him, "Mycroft!" I raced back out of the room, throwing the door to the other room open with a bang as it crashed against the wall and stumbling across the room in my haste. Only to find the little boy with a now blackened face and a now empty bottle of potassium poised over the water, when it had been _full _just seconds ago. I could tell what had happened and once the relief and the pounding hearted panic had subsided, instead I just felt furious, "what the HELL were you doing?!" He looked up at me, eyes wide with an expression which I was all too familiar with of the little-boy-caught-with-his-fingers-in-the-cookie-jar. I gave him my best furious look, "do you have any idea what you could have done? It could have been much worse than that! It could have killed you, you _stupid boy!"_

He burst into tears and the anger drained away to leave weariness and worry in its place,

"I di-didn't mea-mean to! I ju-just wanted t-t-to see th-the fire ag-again!" I heaved a massive sigh, went over and picked him up and smiled at him,

"I know, you silly boy. I was just worried, you know I only shouted because I was scared you would hurt yourself. And you have, Mycroft, look at your fingers." He looked at them, clearly surprised to see that they were bright red and probably extra crispy,

"I-I'm s-s-sorry Sherlock!" I just shook my head and pulled him in for hug,

"It's fine. We know one thing though." He looked up at me through teary eyes,

"Wh-what's that?"

"You are _never _going to be a scientist."

* * *

_**1973 - New Year's Eve (AN. I know, I'm very 'current' aren't I?)**_

_**7 years old**_

_**Sherlock POV**_

"10!" There was a tiny tug at my sleeve, pulling me away from watching the television where the countdown was playing out, I looked down to see Mycroft looking up at me expectantly, "yes, Mycroft?" He looked at me, confused,

"Why's mummy so excited?" We looked over to where Daisy was practically bouncing in her armchair, a box of Quality streets in her lap and a flute of champagne in either hand, since I turned down my drink and given it to her,

"It's New Year's eve." He frowned again, looking like the very thought was completely foreign."

"9!" He sighed and shrugged,

"I don't understand though, it's just another evening. Why's it so special?"

"8!" I picked him up and put him on my knee, although he would soon be getting too big to do that every time he was upset. He looked up at me with those big blue eyes, filled with lack of understanding,

"You've had six of these evenings before, have you never understood?" He shook his head, "well, I suppose it's because-"

"7!" I gave Daisy a dirty look as she kept shouting out the numbers with the person on the TV,

"It's a time of new beginnings."

"6!"

"But why's that so great? I don't get it-"

"5!"

"Because we all live terrible lives-"

"4!"

"For most of the year. We make lots of mistakes."

"3!"

"But on New Year's Eve, they don't matter."

"2!"

"Because we have a whole new slate, to make-"

"1!"

"New mistakes. Understand?" He nodded and just as Daisy leapt to her feet, cheering, I whispered in his ear with a grin, "happy new year, Mycroft. May all those mistakes, we've made in the past, be forgotten and may your new year be full of only wonder and happiness. Now off to bed, I can't believe I let you stay up past midnight. Bed, now."

He nodded and disappeared off, after a fleeting hug from myself and Daisy, who kissed him on the head with a bright smile and wished him a new year.

I sighed, sitting back in my seat, and thinking about what I had said to Mycroft about the New Year and it being a time to forget the mistakes of the old year and start afresh. What I wouldn't give to wipe away all of my errors and misjudgements, to be able to start clean and fresh, with all the scars on my past gone. I snorted slightly, at that choice of wording. I briefly got caught up in thoughts of both of the Elizabeths I'd known, William, Victor, the old blind man and his family-

"HAPPY NEW YEAR, SHERLOCK!" I winced as she screamed in my ear, breath hot and stinking of champagne as she leant in for a sloppy kiss on the cheek, " WOW, YOUR CHEEKBONES ARE SO SHARP! Mycroft, come feel how sharp his cheekbones!" I sighed, quickly taking the champagne from her hands,

"I think you've had quite enough of that."

"I don't think I had my kiss at midnight, come here Sherlock!"

I'm fairly certain Mycroft heard my shout of "Get off me you demented woman!" from the other side of the house, it would certainly explain the knowing grin he gave me in the morning, as his mummy wandered past with a splitting hangover and an embarrassed flush to her cheeks.

* * *

**(continuing on from first part of the AN at the top) … until after my exams are over. Did I have you guys scared? I wonder who will just read the first part of my AN, at the top, and think I'm gone forever? My apologies, I kind of wanted to see if anyone would panic, as it would be funny.**

**Also, little celebratory notice; 6th of January (I think that's right) is mine and Sherlock's anniversary, I only started watching in the second series and that was the date I saw my first episode – A Scandal in Belgravia - and utterly fell in love and that might have had something to do with Sherlock's partial nudity and glorious beauty. So thank you Sherlock, TV show and sexy character, you've both ruined my life and made it all the more amazing, it's been unreal – I mean this story wouldn't be here for a start without that magic day and I wouldn't have all you wonderful people commenting and being lovely. Also, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT'S ALMOST BEEN A YEAR SINCE SHERLOCK COMMITTED '_SUICIDE'_? How are we still sane? Oh wait I'm talking to the Sherlock fandom… we're not sane, we never were, so discount that. Anyway, I'm celebrating that anniversary by going to London for a Cabin Pressure recording with Benedict Cumberbatch in it (I know, weird/wonderful coincidence or what?!) and I've very excited to see my super-duper-amazing-fantastic-epically-wonderful mega-crush in the flesh. Hurray! Probably will end up not getting in to the recording, if I don't I'll just wait until the end and get a signing, and possibly follow him home. Just kidding ;) … I'm not. Anyway, to anyone still reading this massive chunk and who isn't angry at me for the above author note prank, well done! Mark the dates January 1st to January 15th as Sherlock Series 2 appreciation fortnight. And have an AMAZING New Year.**


	19. Adolescence Montage

_**1978 - Family**_

_**12 years old**_

_**Sherlock POV**_

A vase collided with the wall just a few centimetres from my head, fragmenting on impact and showering me with a hundred tiny pieces which sliced my skin as they rained down upon me. I didn't look up, I just kept reading and stated, in a bored tone,

"Was that really necessary, Mycroft?" There was a strangled snarling sound and then the glass paperweight on my desk was thrown at me. I caught it with a small jolt of pain, as my wrist was twisted back due to the sheer force with which it had been flung. I placed it on the coffee table beside me, folded my newspaper onto my crossed knee and looked up at him, knowing that my calm and condescending look would just infuriate him more, "that was a gift from my father, Mycroft, it is not there for you to fling around." His hand went to pick up the lamp at my side but, just as quickly, I had stood up and crossed the room, stopping him with a sharp, clipped movement, and saying quietly, "that's quite enough, Mycroft, you've made your point."

"You just don't care do you?" I fixed him with another look,

"I'm not going to justify that with an answer. Why don't you calm down, so we can speak about this reasonably, like adults?" He growled and then spun on his heel and stormed over to the other side of the room. I sighed slightly, he was only twelve but I hd already grown weary of his mood-swings, I worried for the adolescent years still to come, when they would just get worse,

"You don't though." I looked over at him, he was composed now – the icy cold façade fixing into place with the skill of a politician putting on their apathetic mask before a conference – but I could still see that slight flicker of almost deranged anger in the depths of his eye, visible to only those who knew him extremely well… and I suppose that consisted of just two people in the whole world, both of whom were in the room, not even Mummy understood him anymore,

"Of course I care, I care more than you can realise, Mycroft. Why would I have taken you in if I didn't?" He smiled slightly, a tiny humourless twitch at the corner of his mouth,

"If you truly cared then you would tell me who they were, you would understand that to be happy I need to know who I am and to know that I need to know where I came from."

"You do not need to know who your birth parents are for you to be able to understand yourself Mycroft."

"I'm a bastard, a cold heartless bastard, that's what they all say at school."

"In the textbook definition, I suppose they're correct in saying you're a bastard – since your parents weren't married. But you're not a bastard in the way they clearly think of you, they just don't know you. You're a good person beneath it all, Mycroft, but you put on a frosty exterior and they just don't trust you. I understand you Mycroft, in a way your parents couldn't have, we're quite similar, and you don't need me to tell you that, to tell you who you are, and you certainly don't need them-" He looked at me, a hint of sadness in his eyes,

"I just… I want to know. I _need _to know." I nodded, it had been a source of constant arguments between the two of us over the years, as he grew up, he had just gotten harder and harder to reach over the years. He became angry and lonely and manipulative, deadly intelligent and cruelly ambitious but deep down he was hurt, he wanted to know things I couldn't – or rather wouldn't - tell him. He wanted to know who his real parent were and I worried... I worried that maybe he would leave and I would be alone again, that he would be angry or he wouldn't need me anymore. But it wasn't fair to keep it from him anymore.

I crossed to the desk and lifted out the documents I had collected, information that I hoped could give him a comprehensive view of both sides of his lineage. It wasn't much but I knew he would have everything he needed, I had been preparing for this for a long time,

"Your mother's name was Madeleine Holmes, the daughter of Lord Edward and Lady Constance Holmes who own the Holmes estate not far from here. Your father, Siger Brian Rutherford, was the son of a respected soldier who came back from the war to work in the local post office, whilst your father went on to be the CEO of a large company and is now an extremely rich man. He married after you were born, knowing nothing about your existence, to a woman called Violet and they have four children – your half siblings – called Amelia, Sherringford, Charlotte and Siger Junior. If you wish to have contact with them I will be very happy to arrange it, I'm sure they would be happy to adopt your family and, with their proclivity for odd names, they would no doubt be able to pass you off for one of their own. The children are all under six years old and would probably not remember your adoption in the future and merely see you as a full sibling-"

"Sherlock, I'm not moving in with these people." I frowned, a tiny flicker of hope burning in my chest,

"I won't mind, if that's what you want. To have a real mother and father is all you've wanted for a rather long time-"

"And now I'm looking at this and seeing the photographs and I realise… this isn't my family. He might be my father and maybe I want him in my life, but then maybe I don't. But there's one thing I know for certain; I definitely want you and Mummy in my life. You and I might not get along all the time but we're family, no matter how distant, and that means something. We're brothers and we always will be." I felt a small lump in my throat and I only just managed to nod in agreement,

"Excellent. But know that if you ever want to be with them, you only have to ask."

"Are you trying to get rid off me?" He chuckled. I just shook my head,

"Never, Mycroft."

_**1982 – Sexuality**_

_**16 years old**_

_**Sherlock POV**_

As Mycroft grew into a teenager, and slowly into a young adult, he grew more and more distant. There were more bitter fights, over everything from school work to my time spent in the laboratory to all the time spent at the 'library' to the fact I couldn't tell him what to do since I wasn't his father. He grew colder, and spent most of his time absent but I could slowly see that brain evolving into the person I had known he could be from the very start, I saw that combination of my brilliant deductive and scientific mind blended with the Frankenstein family's brains. I had never had any doubt that Ernest, from the way he had handled the estate from such a young ago years ago, was almost as intelligent as Victor, although perhaps in different ways. He might not have been a genius but he was definitely the son of a magistrate, a learned man, and he had passed that on to his daughter – I'd known Elizabeth was different and intelligent from the start – and she had passed it onto our child, along with my brain, to be inherited by our whole line of descendants. Until, at last, the brains had come to my ward and brother. And I was very proud of him, watching him pouring over his work and getting the best qualifications out of his school, possibly in the history of the school.

We never really thought about the age difference anymore, I suppose he didn't really know about it. He just saw me as twenty or so years older than him, since he didn't know who I was, but in the past few years he had grown gradually more aware of the fact I wasn't ageing. Other than that, the age gap seemed irrelevant, since I didn't look that much older than him and I certainly didn't look old enough to even be his father – let alone my actual relations to him.

Now that he was older, he wasn't as affectionate and carefree as he was when he was a boy. We still had a quite close and occasionally friendly relationship but we usually only talked cordially on passing, we were more guarded and secretive around each other. Most of the time was spent locked away in our respective rooms and tending to our own work, when he was home from boarding school that is. It had been a source of great debate when I announced he was going to Eton, he didn't want to lose the connections/henchmen and the friends he had at home and his mummy didn't want him to go. I had been shut out and screamed at for quite some time before he left but he had done well at the school so I knew it was going to be alright, he still held some bitterness about being 'sent away' as he put it and he didn't talk to me anywhere near as much as before he went. But even with the restricted time I spent with him, I could see he was going to be brilliant, a great politician – the best even – but probably not in the way he was expected to be. His friends at Eton proclaimed that he would be the Prime Minister one day but I knew that wasn't his style; I'd seen from his early days that he was a puppet master, a manipulator and a master of secrets and control. I knew he would be in the British Government, he could even _be _the Government, but he would be pulling the strings from behind the screen and watching everyone else dance, he would never be the marionette. Although I do believe he has a certain fondness for the current Prime Minister, even though I don't know who she is – I believe he once referred to her as the Iron Lady but she could have been made entirely of magnesium for all that it mattered to me.

I did prefer the times when he was on holiday and at home, having someone in the house suited me – his mummy had moved into a new house further away to be with her new husband so I was alone during term time. When he was home, I spent less time entirely alone with my thoughts for days on end, because there was someone there to think about and carry on for, to talk to on passing and to sleep nearby, so I wasn't so alone with my nightmares. He even helped me to gain greater bearing with my violin – since I had paid for him to have lessons - whereas in the past I would have just sat and plucked to ease the silence, now I could play it properly. I think he instantly regretted that, when I soon began to wake him up early in the morning with the occasional impromptu concerto, he still seemed utterly baffled by the fact I lived on next to no sleep or food. But, whereas once he and mummy had tried to convince me it was unhealthy and that I was harming myself - despite the fact mummy knew at least enough about my past to know I was very _resilient_ - he had seemed to have given up and left me to my bad habits.

It was the summer holiday, his exams were finished and he was back home, usually to be found studying in the living room with sheets spread out around him, looking intently at paper with a pen nibbled between his teeth. Which was why, when I came home from the laboratory late in the evening and looked in to find the books thrown around as if there had been a struggle on top of them, I became worried… until I saw the pair of lace knickers strewn over one of the books. I sighed, displeased at having come home to something like this, as I still saw him as the baby I had been handed in the hospital and had no intentions of thinking of him as an adult who had sex. What was even more outrageous was that I knew, for a fact, he was gay. Even if he didn't realise it yet.

I was just about to go into the kitchen to brew a cup of tea when there was the sound of undistinguishable raised voices, doors slamming and angry footsteps on the corridor upstairs, making me freeze in the doorway as I watched a girl come storming down the stairs. She had bright pink lipstick smeared halfway across her face and I was quite frankly worried she would fall headfirst down the stairs in shoes so high, before she screamed over her shoulder,

"Just piss off Mycroft! Clearly you're not attracted to me, since you can't get it up! I don't know why I even tried to sleep with you, you're just the fat ugly posh kid!" She sneered up at him, and then turned and glimpsed me, "I clearly went for the wrong family member, is this your very handsome brother?"

"Yes, I am. Sherlock Holmes at your service and I'm just going to say that insulting Mycroft – who is actually a perfectly healthy weight, very intelligent, and not in the slightest big ugly - will not make you feel any less insecure about your own weight, as you are clearly feeling after his rejection. I think you should apologise and then get the hell out of my house, I don't take kindly to promiscuous teenagers running around and leaving their underwear on _my _books."

I left her staring after me open mouthed and went back into the room, tossing her underwear out behind me with disgust, before picking up one of my books and sitting down in my armchair. About ten minutes later, after some further shouting that included my name quite a few times, the front door slammed and Mycroft sank into the armchair across from me, the fire illuminating the exhaustion on his face as he mumbled,

"Thank you for that." I just nodded, allowing silence to descend for a minute before I mentioned,

"Your flies are undone." He sighed, did them up, and then rubbed his hands over his face, ruffling his slightly reddish brown hair,

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Sherlock, she's the prettiest girl in the town and she was interested in me!"

"Not to burst your bubble but think she was interested in your money, judging how she deliberately came here with no condoms to seduce you, no doubt thinking a baby would set her up financially for life."

"How did you know-? No, you know what? I don't care at the moment. I had the prettiest girl interested in me, for whatever reason, and I wasn't interested in her back."

"Mmm, yes she was quite stunning." He sank lower in his chair, creasing his smart clothes, he might have only been eighteen but he seemed to live in suits, "but you're just not attracted to her, are you My?" He smiled at the childhood term of affection which I only used nowadays in those rare moments, such as those, when we were at peace and a family, before his smile fell again,

"No, I'm not. I don't understand." I chuckled, placing my book on the side,

"_You_? Mycroft Holmes? _You_ don't understand?" I sat back with a laugh, tucking my hands under my chin, pressing my fingertip together in a gesture close to a prayer, a pose I often adopted whilst thinking,

"No! No, I don't!"

"Really? With your bright mind… it really is very simple-"

"Sherlock, just tell me!" I raised an eyebrow at his impatience but answered nonetheless,

"Well, clearly, you're attracted to boys."

The effect was instant, as his mouth fell open and he began to splutter,

"Boys? I'm not- I'm no- no- no! I'm not-"

"Gay? Well you spend an awful lot of time gazing longingly at that James boy in the post office for a heterosexual male. Don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone and I'm certainly not going to judge. Personally, I don't really have a sexual preference – I'm looking for a person, not a gender. I want someone who can love me, and I do not care if they are male or female, nor do I particularly care about their appearance. I merely wish for love, so I pass no judgement on your preference-" He fell back in his seat,

"But- you must care at least a _little bit _what they look like? You have loads of female attention, the scars are almost entirely gone, surely you could pick an attractive person-" I narrowed my eyes slightly,

"Who am I to label someone as attractive, to judge them on their appearance? Everyone is beautiful, some perhaps more than others but none of them are ugly; I was a monster long ago, hideous in comparison to all of those people who pass me in the street, who am I to point a finger and spit the words I once had hissed at me in the street, and in the freak-show-" His mouth dropped open,

"You were in a freak-show? How is that possible, I thought they stopped years ago!" I froze, realising I had revealed more than I should have and quickly formulating a lie to cover my tracks,

"Yes, in England, but I spent some time in America in my youth and they were still a staple of family entertainment in certain areas; the people were not very accepting in those days-"

"You can't have been so horrific, you look almost entirely normal now."

"I have healed, but some scars still remain, you've seen them. They may be faint now but they are decades old," _centuries even, _I added in my head, "and most of the healing was only been a very recent development after the wars, since soldiers came back horribly disfigured. They advanced in their surgical practices and I gained further treatment but these were once raised and angry in their colouring, stitched with ugly black threat and extensive, particularly on my head and face. Some of those scars are still there, they're merely covered by hair."

"It must have been terrible to have been disfigured for so long. I can't imagine it- the suffering you must have gone through." I sighed, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the photograph which was battered and beaten from many years, the creases so old that the ink had rubbed away on the folds. The letter it had been attached to always sat in the pocket over my chest, close to my heart even after all this time. I didn't tell him that it was one of the oldest photographs in existence, I didn't tell him that it came from the inventor of the Calotype photograph, and the only truly accurate image I had from those times. I just held it out, as he sucked in a breath in horror, "oh my God."

"Yes, it's quite a transformation, isn't it?"

"It's not possible."

"Ah, but it is."

"It doesn't even look like you- there's the same pattern of scarring but this? I can barely see it on your face now but this is... astounding. I'm sorry… it was your father who gave you those scars, wasn't it? You said so once upon a time and I didn't understand but now… now I do, you must hate him." I smiled sadly, in my heart of hearts I had let it go a long time ago and made peace with my lot in life. Victor had played his hand as God and it cost him everything, that was all I needed to know.

"Yes, my father did give me those scars but he didn't really mean it. He didn't hurt me when he did it, I don't remember earning the scars, and he never expected me to live and carry them for so long. It was a surprise that I was even alive, he didn't mean for me to suffer in the way I did. So, no I don't hate him. He was my father, he did dreadful things but I forgave him as any child would their only parent, because I loved him regardless of his faults."

"Still, I'm sorry for the pain he caused you."

"As am I." He looked at the picture again,

"They're not as I remember… when we went swimming you had more. There's the a criss crossing pattern from whips which I can see here, although they're cuts rather than scars here-"

"Yes, they were still fresh. They're nothing compared to what I was born with so I don't pay them much attention and the bullet wounds mark me alongside the comrades I had in the war, they remind me of a time when I was accepted, when I had friends in my fellow soldiers. The whippings… well they remind me of where I once was and how much I was hated, and why those people hated me- They hurt a bit more when I look at them."

"I don't blame you for hating people. No, wait," he held up a hand as I looked like I was about to interrupt, "I know you do, I see the contempt – even the fear – in your eyes in public. You're cold and allusive, just like me, but you like to avoid them even more and distrust them. Sometimes I see this look on your face, almost as if you think the person you're speaking to will burst out laughing or pounce at any second. I don't blame you for hating them but sometimes I wonder why you are kind to me, like today, when I am so angry at you or I avoid you so much." I took a second, before I admitted a very private thing to him,

"You have her eyes," Elizabeth's I thought, "the eyes of someone I once loved, and the eyes of your mother. She was my friend, for quite some time, and I see her kindness in you even when you do not show it willingly. I've watched you grow up Mycroft and I'm proud of you, I look forward to seeing your successes and, even though you're so far away from me in the family tree, you're my little brother." He smiled and I thought sadly of the time in a few years when he would age and catch up to me, to overtake me and forget his older brother because that would be him instead. The curse of eternal youth. And I would need to tell him the truth, before that happened, and it wouldn't be long.

"I promise to be a better brother, Sherlock, I promise to always care for you and protect you. I know we're changing, or at least I am - you've been the same for as long as I remember – and we've grown apart recently, and we'll grow even more jaded in time, but I promise we'll always care about each other. We'll always be brothers and I _will _protect you, even when you're old and grey. Although sometimes it seems like you'll never grow old," he laughed and I joined in, although it sounded hollow, as he struck a note too close to the truth for comfort, "and it'll be you sat at _my _deathbed, the same as when I was a baby. But even if that were the case, I'd still look after you."

"I get the feeling you might become a little over-protective of me, Mycroft. But I'm looking forward to it, goodness knows it's nice to have someone who wants to be over protective of me. But for now it's my job to look after you- and I have just the method." I crossed to where I had a pile of papers in a binder, on the bookcase, which I had been getting ready for today – much in the way I had compiled information on his family before handing it over. I held it out to him, smirking slightly as he dropped slightly under the weight, I had really outdone myself,

"What's all this?"

"That pile has all the future job offers, university courses and work placements I have been given for you to attend to, along with the glowing references of various professors I have had keeping an eye on you and your studies, and all the various contacts compiled from my personal contact book from the university. All of them will happily speak to you and help you along your way in the government, some of those people have close connections to - or are themselves - very important in the government, and are my old patients, students, colleagues and friends. I know that you have talent and you'll be at the top in no time, I've just been waiting for the right time to give you these. Today seemed like that time." He was still staring at the bundles of paper, eyes flicking over them in shock,

"How did you get all these?"

"I've been around for a while Mycroft, worked for and helped a lot of influential people. I may not have had many friends but I had connections, all linked to my research or work and all extremely important and necessary, I reached out to some of the men I treated as a doctor and the friends I made at conferences and laboratories, or their families and students, and they were only too happy to help. Besides, a lot of them owe me favours for helpind to do a little bit of spying or unpaid work, but since I have no need for them, I am already where I want to be at the moment and see no desire to claim on those favours, I told them to transfer their repayments to you. You have the whole world ahead of you Mycroft, make me proud." He looked overwhelmed but finally he managed to choke out,

"I will, I promise."

_**1983 – Betrayal**_

_**17 years old**_

_**Sherlock POV**_

The sense of betrayal that stabbed me in the heart, seeing Mycroft sauntering through the door, was overwhelming. He threw his bag down, stopped to readjust his jacket and then turned, only to see me leaning against the banister of the staircase, staring at him with enough heat to burn through the fabric of that jacket as I spoke, clearly but letting every emotion drip into my every word,

"Do you honestly think me so stupid, Mycroft?" He looked at me, utterly aghast, for a second and then ducked his head and went to go into the kitchen, avoiding my gaze as he spoke,

"Of course I don't think you're stupid, Sherlock, you're probably the most intelligent man I know and I have no idea what you're talking about." I caught him by the shoulder and spun him round, closing in as much as possible as I spoke, my breath on his face as I stated,

"I said it was alright if you wanted to meet them, I gave you permission. I never expected you to go behind my back, to go ahead and do it without even saying you were going to meet them, giving me no warning, and then trying to pretend like you've just gotten back from studying."

"How did you-?"

"How did I know? Perhaps it's the fact you're wearing your best suit, that you checked your ten times in the mirror earlier, that I saw you had a particularly large breakfast this morning – which you only do when you're nervous – or because I saw you checking bus schedules to his town, whilst trying to hide it from me. Don't try and outwit me Mycroft, you're just not that smart."

"Why are you being so melodramatic Sherlock? I just went to lunch with them, that's all. You said you were fine with me meeting them-"

"I am fine with that, it's the deception that I dislike." He scoffed, and went to go into the kitchen again, no doubt the nerves and the stress making him hungry again, I caught him by the wrist and spun him back round to face me, "Mycroft, you have to see it through my eyes. You lied to me, you went to see him without saying anything, making it seem like there's something there to hide... that maybe you want to leave her and go to live with him. I don't want you to lie to me-"

"Oh because you're so honest with me?"

"I have my reasons to lie to you-"

"Father said he'd never lie to me, that if you hadn't kept me a secret from him, he would have looked after me in an instant, been a rel father to me whilst you always shied away from that. Perhaps that would have been better for everyone." I dropped his wrist like it was burning the palm of my hand, hurt recoiling up in my stomach like a snake,

"Would you have preferred that? Being raised by him... never knowing me?" Mycroft didn't back down, or take it back, riled as he was,

"Yes, I probably would have. Father's not aloof and cold like you are, sure you have your moments but you can be a real heartless bastard, as if you don't care sometimes. Do you want to know something? He hugged me when we were getting up to go, and told me I could get in contact at anytime, that he loved me. You don't tell me that you love me... you don't even tell me that you care." I turned away,

"When you live a life such as the one I have lived, you learn that often… caring is not an advantage. But I have always tried to change my ways for you Mycroft, because you needed me, because it was your mother's wish and I owed it to our family."

"Our family? You're just lying to me, all over again." I frowned,

"What are you talking about?"

"Well you're not, are you? You're not my family. You've always said that we're distantly related but the thing is… I have poured over the family trees you gave me, the genealogy records in local libraries and the national databases and censuses, I've even sent letters to distant family members, and there are no records of a Sherlock Holmes anywhere on there, in fact there are no records of a birth certificate for you anywhere. So either you've lied about your name, which is highly possible, or you're not really related to me, which I think is even more possible-"

"Well that's where you're wrong-"

"Oh really? How then? How are you related to me?"

"I can't sa-"

"You can't say, you can never say. Why not, Sherlock? If that is really your name-"

"Yes it is and I can't say because… well, because-"

"WHY? WHY CAN'T YOU JUST _TELL ME?"_

"_BECAUSE IT WOULD FRIGHTEN YOU!"_

He stumbled back, wide eyed and truly surprised by my answer,

"Wha- what? Why would that frighten me?" I sighed, weary and beaten down, taking a seat on the lowest step and dropping my head into my hands,

"Once upon a time, I told you a story… and you didn't like it. That story was about me, you probably don't even remember anymore – since you were only four years old at the time – and whilst I always wanted to tell you the truth... there was never a time that you were ready. Seeing the fear in the eyes when you were four years old and after the nightmares that followed… I knew I could never tell you, or you'd leave my life forever. And now... you're going to leave anyway. Regardless of whether I tell you truth."

"You know then?"

"That your father's asked you to live with him? Yes, I knew from the second you stepped in… I could see you mulling it over and well- I know how you feel. I know what it's like to be desperate for your father to love you, to want him to appreciate you and to look after you, to acknowledge that you're his son, I was exactly the same way with Victor." I didn't realise what I'd said for a minute, as I sat with my face still cradled in my hands. Until I realised that the silence had gone on a little too long and I looked up, peeking through the gap in my fingers, only to see his appalled expression, as all the blood drained from his face. Then it hit me, what that statement actually said to him, as he stuttered,

"Vic-Victor? He was your-? Oh my- the story, I remember the story now… you're the- it all makes sense, how could I have been so blind?! You're Victor's creature, that's why you're not on the family tree. You're the family's dirty little secret, of course you're not there, and that means that-" I went to try and talk to him but he stumbled back in his fear, falling onto his backside and holding his hands out in front of him, protectively, as he hissed, "keep back! I know what you did, remember? What you did to Victor's brother and his wife, I looked up that story once, after one of the nightmares. You raped her and you kidnapped his niece and killed his brother, and that family! That poor family with the old blind man and pregnant wife! Oh yes, i know all about you! Unravel one thread and you can follow it all the way to the end of the story, I found out everything! I can't believe I ever thought you cared about me, I can't believe I've been in the house with you for so long, you're a monster!" I felt the tears bubbling up but I couldn't even cry them out, as I choked, pain ripping through me at seeing that he knew the truth and was ready to reject me, as I had always worried he would,

"Mycroft please, it wasn't- I didn't mean to."

"Shut up! Just SHUT UP! You're a murderer… I can't stay here." He went to push past me, to climb the stairs, and I grabbed his wrist, trying to stop him so I could calm him down and explain,

"Mycroft, please!" I was stopped by a shove to the chest and I stumbled back, crashing into the wall, as he stormed up the stairs in a rage,

"Don't talk to me Sherlock, don't even fucking try. I'm leaving and if you think I'm e_ver_ coming back then you're sorely mistaken. You should have just given me to my _real _family. You've just fucked it all up again."

I sank down onto the step and when he walked out half an hour later I didn't try to stop him, he didn't even acknowledge my presence. He just yanked his bags over me, not caring that they hit my crumpled dejected form on the way, not caring that I had been there for his whole life, raised him and cared for him, he just walked out. I sent letters in the days that followed but they were always returned with a prim note from his father telling me he didn't want any further contact. And I could understand that… why would he?

It was a few days later that his mummy found me sat on the steps again, red eyed but determined, staring at the suitcases in front of me, grimly,

"Sherlock, dear, what's wrong? Where- where are you going?" I looked up at her, my emotionless face set in place,

"I'm leaving." She frowned,

"What? Why would you do that, dear? Doesn't Mycroft need you here?"

"Mycroft doesn't need me anymore, Daisy, he's got his real family. You can go back to your husband, that's where you belong, where you're needed, because you're no longer needed here anymore."

"But what about you dear?"

"Stop calling me that, I'm not your dear. You were here to care for Mycroft, he's gone, your services are no longer required. The only reason you spend so much time here is because you hate being at home with your husband, you hate him, and you feel too lonely at there with no real children of your own to look after-" I heard the slap before I felt it,

"He was my real child, Sherlock, I loved that boy and I love you, as you know. You two are my children."

"Not anymore, we've grown up, and I'm leaving. I shouldn't have come here, I shouldn't have taken Mycroft in, I was a fool. I raised him knowing that he would reject me eventually…" I softened slightly, seeing her heartbreak, "thank you, Daisy, for everything you've done. It was nice to have someone look after me, but I'm not going to stay here."

"Where will you go?"

"Who knows? I have a flat in London… perhaps I'll study again, perhaps I'll even get a new job. I just… I can't stay here. Thank you, Daisy, but this is our final goodbye." She was crying now, the tears looked wrong on her ageing face, she was in the stage of life where she was carefree, happy and retired with her family surrounding her, she didn't look like she should be nursing a broken heart, as she reached up to cup the now burning cheek,

"Take care of yourself my silly boy, don't do anything too dangerous."

"You know me, Daisy… even if I did I doubt it would have much an effect." She smiled sadly and then nodded,

"I suppose not… but just know, I'm always here. Okay?" I nodded and then picked up my bags,

"I'll try and send word from London."

That was the last time I saw the only mother figure I had ever had, before a certain land-lady came into my life. She died six months later from heart failure, having spent her final days in a hospital, and I had no doubt that it had been the heartbreak which had, in the end, finished her off. I certainly didn't see Mycroft for a long time.

But I did go to London, and that is where I found relief… in the addictive arms of a mistress called cocaine.


	20. Mummy

Sherlock POV

The funeral was a quiet service, there weren't many people left to grieve for the lovely woman that Mycroft and I had called mummy. She had been ill for some time, from the stroke, even before our little family unit had parted ways. Heart problems and stress had gotten to her, living with a husband who was slowly descending into the throngs of dementia hadn't helped the strain on her, Mycroft and I had gone to separate the two of them fighting on more than one occasion. She was different with him than she was with us, granted we didn't know her husband very well but we could always tell he was confused by his surroundings and it frustrated her to no end, angering her that he couldn't remember anything so that – in the end – she barely even spoke to him except for the fighting matches between the pair of them. He often attacked her, threw things, and I would be called out to separate the fights.

Mycroft hadn't liked it, obviously, but it was worse for him. He was so young and stressed, trying to deal with the hardships of young life and stresses of his exams, the added stress of having a bickering mother who was often covered in scratches and bruises from the fights and hearing the way his lovely mother spoke to her husband nowadays frightened him I think. He didn't talk about it but she was just so different with her husband that he could barely recognise the mummy he had known, perhaps that was why he withdrew from her slightly in the last few months, why he refused to let her mediate in arguments between the two of us. We'd left them to it in the end, we barely saw her as she was coping with her husband, we were so caught up in our own drama and the anger we felt at them for being so cruel to each other. We didn't want to know at the very end, because the stress at home made her short with us, angry and constantly moaning about home-life, she wasn't the woman we had known for nearly eighteen years.

Then we both left and none of us had any contact, I received a message when she had the stroke but the pain of seeing her like that and the fear of not being able to remember her as she was, when Mycroft was young, when she adored us both and wasn't a griping old woman who was constantly on edge, was too keen. I didn't visit. I put it off again and again, I didn't want to see her like that, to see a woman who had become bedridden and constantly in pain, unable to do anything. I was too much of a coward to visit, even when the other family members visited her, those that had not loved her as we had. I know she would have wanted to see me and Mycroft one last time but I didn't want to see her because she would bring back bad memories of my time with Mycroft, which I was trying to forget because they hurt, because then I saw the final argument. So I reasoned that it was because I didn't want to see her lying in a hospital bed, unable to move or speak or feed herself, delirious. But in reality, I just couldn't reconcile the memories of her with baby Mycroft with the memories I had of her final months, when we were all still together and I just didn't like her anymore. Deep down I loved her but with the stroke and the changes in her life I couldn't bear to be around her anymore, she wasn't my friend, my mother figure, she was just a woman now without even those memories.

So I didn't go to see her in the hospital and then I got the phone call that she was gone… I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Over the years I had begun to think of myself as more human, more caring… but how could I be? When I didn't see her as regularly as I should have, when I didn't visit her in the hospital – regardless of whether she was delirious or not – and I hadn't made an effort to keep in touch with her. Other people would have, they would have been kind and they would have known exactly what to say to her, they would have wanted to visit her in the hospital, regardless of the stress that had been caused by the constant worry for almost a year about her wellbeing, about her change in attitude and her cruelty almost to her husband, who couldn't help the fact he couldn't remember. How could I so coldly say that it was for the best, that she hadn't been at her best for a long time, that she was in a better place? It was what everyone said, but even though I was sad I had been able to reason. And grief shouldn't be reasonable and well thought out, I should have just sobbed and cried and felt a tearing pain, certainly I was saddened, I looked back fondly on the good memories and I wished to talk to her one last time but I could still say that this was for the best, that she was better off. And that wasn't fair to her memory, I should have been sadder. I know it. I wasn't really human if I could grieve so rationally.

I didn't return to see her in the hospital when she was alive, I didn't rush to her hospital bed when she went in the early hours of the morning from her heart suddenly giving out, I waited until the funeral came around.

Mycroft wasn't there, I'm not sure if I had expected him to be. He felt the same about her in the last few months of her his life, there was an almost resentment about the difficulty and responsibility that was heaped on his shoulders, he protected himself from the pain by removing himself. But I knew he felt guilty for not wanting to be around her and he loved her but, like me, he had loved the memory of her in the end, not the bitter woman she became as her husband's carer.

They asked me to do a eulogy, as I had known her for so long and loved her so much but I said no, it would have felt false and unfair to those people who had been there for her in her final months. I had loved her for a long time but at the end I hadn't been around, I hadn't cared – at least not outwardly, for her to see – and it wouldn't be fair for me to stand up and say how much I had loved her. And I knew that there would be no-one listening anyway, not in the sense of her looking down upon us and hearing the kind words because, in the end, she was dead and gone and I had long ago given up the belief that there was a God or a Heaven. She was better off having passed away because she wouldn't want to be stuck in a bed, unable to talk or feed herself for the rest of her life, because it meant eternal sleep, she wasn't better off because she was going to heaven. There was no heaven; I knew that, there was just sleep. And I had accepted that. I knew she wouldn't be looking down on my eulogy so I paid tribute in a silent way, in my memories rather than my words.

I remembered the first time we had taken Mycroft out in a car; I had absolutely hated it, she had driven whilst I sat feeling vaguely sick and terrified next to her, my fingers gripping the leather and my entire face white as a sheet. She'd just smiled at me and patted my hand comfortingly, understanding, whereas Mycroft had absolutely loved it. We'd stopped to go into a shop and I had gladly jumped out, to get away from the thing. As I was crossing the road Mycroft, who was only about four at the time, had shouted after me in a tiny voice, "be careful Sherly!" She'd never let him forget that, she had just thought it so cute and funny and she would tell him the story every couple of weeks. He'd always roll his eyes and indignantly protest that he'd heard the story a hundred times but he always liked to remember it just a little bit.

Or I'd remember the time they went shopping together and she refused to buy him a magazine he wanted, which he hadn't needed to be fair, and he had proceeded to walk up to every person in the shop and tell them that she was a mean mummy who wouldn't buy him a magazine, she never let him forget that either.

Or the times they'd played on the swings together, and she wouldn't let him hang upside down on the monkey bars because she was scared he'd fall and hurt himself, or the time we'd been on holiday and he'd thrown the keys on the roof and she'd been annoyed and flapping about, she tended to do that. She always flapped around, moaning and getting easily flustered, as lovely as she was she wasn't the most intelligent woman in the world and couldn't really do more than one thing at a time, so she was easily panicked and overwhelmed.

But she really was the best mother a little boy could have, caring and loving and sweet, always giving him sweets from the sweetshop she'd worked at, because she got them for free. She was always a penny saver, she didn't like to spend money and she hoarded things in her cupboard, going to carboot sales to sell tiny things for less money than the cost of the petrol to get the stuff to the carboot sale and usually coming home with more stuff then she went with, just left over rubbish that people would give her. She was a woman we would always associate with the Sunday dinners I would make with her, where she always made the potatoes because it was the only thing she could cook apart from biscuits and cakes. Mycroft would always associate her with the fizzy orange drink she always had in the fridge, because it was her favourite she always had a glass of it made up and being cooled, but she always let Mycroft have it anyway, even if she had been planning to drink it. Or the tub of biscuits she kept stocked up for the both of us, and would offer as soon as we came through the door of her house and sat down, or the desk she kept in her house so I could work whenever we came over for Sunday dinner; I would never forget the fact she always stopped to play with little children because she just adored babies, even though it was embarassing for us that she clucked over every baby se could find, even when the parents got annoyed with her for taking so long. I would always rememer that she always seemed to have crumbs or a smudge of food on her jumper. Or the fact that every Monday when Mycroft was little, regardless of whether I was working or not, she would come over and sit with him in front of the TV, give him a glass of milk and a donought and they would watch the same children's TV show for an hour and then - when he was older - they would always watch Countdown together.

There was so much I remembered about her in the days when she was happy and carefree, the woman of Mycroft's childhood and my happiest years, when I was hardly ever alone for once, and I didn't even remember all of them, there wee just so many things made me think about her. I could probably think of a thousand things I associated with her from her pottering around in her garden, to her compulsively tidying the cupboards and only ever managing to move things around to her smile and good-natured laugh or the fact she was constantly telling me to stop dying my hair because she didn't understand that it was to stop all of the different colours in my roots "because people muck about with their appearance too much nowadays and you don't need to!" because she always thought I was handsome and clever, and was so proud of me and Mycroft. And that was the woman I'd always remember and love, my mother.

So even though she was gone, and I felt that crushing guilt and sadness over her death, I would always love her and remember her with fond memories, and forget those final months because that hadn't been the mummy we'd known. And the mummy we had known, we were _privileged _to have known.

**AN. I hope this isn't too much rambling and I know it doesn't really fit into the story but I felt like I needed to write it. My grandfather just passed away, I found out this morning, and I've been having difficulty even beginning to come to terms with it, or the guilt I feel since I share a lot of feelings with Mycroft and Sherlock in this and a lot of these memories are my own. I suppose mummy's story is my granddad's story, and their emotions about it are my own, my own guilt and anguish and it probably makes me sound a little bit of a heartless bitch in places and I know some places probably don't make sense or continue on from each other but my head's really all over the place and I just needed to get it down and to start to process what's happened. Because I really am heartbroken, I miss him already and I can't believe I'm never going to speak to him again. So I'm sorry if I've bummed you out but there's no-one for me to talk to right now, I haven't seen my best friends today and my other friends just ignored me when I tried to bring it up, because we then had an important maths even to go to, and I just needed to vent and this is always what I do when I need to get my own emotions out/organised, I write and I can't help but think that Sherlock would have had a similar reaction to mummy's death as I'm having to my granddad's. Thanks for reading.**


	21. 1992 - Sebastian Wilkes

**AN. Just wanted to start by saying thank you for your support guys, it's really lovely to know you all care and I can rely on my 'crazy internet friends' you really are all very lovely. I've been in contact with one of my friends so I'm feeling better and I'm going to do a little bit of retail therapy at some point (lots of shopping) with some of the money I was left but otherwise I'm doing better. I will admit that whilst there has always been a small amount of my own feelings and emotions from my life injected into Sherlock throughout this story, the last chapter really did come from a place of very raw pain and I'm glad it was appreciated and I'm pleased it helped some of you and you could relate, so I'm glad that I wrote that chapter, it really did help, and so did your support. Lots of love, Alex. xxx Enjoy the new chapte and hopefully the next will be coming very soon, since I have time off school due to the snow.**

1992 – Sebastian Wilkes

Sherlock POV

"You alright mate?" I frowned at him, carrying on with my experiment and pointedly ignoring the tremble running through my hands, if I didn't acknowledge it then it wasn't there, I was the master of my body. I had fought with and trained my body for decades, I wasn't about to let that hard gained control run away into the chaos that I had experienced in my early days.

"I'm fine, wh-why'd you ask?" He leant against the desk, peering at me intently,

"You're twitching mate-" He leant out to touch the offending hand and then retracted it with a look of disgust, "ugh, how much are you sweating? Jesus Sherlock, this kitchen's freezing are you sure you're alright?" I glared up at Sebastian,

"I'm _fine, _just worried about that exam tomorrow." It was a blatant lie, we both knew it was, as was obvious in the incredulous tone of his response,

"You? Worried about an exam, like Hell you are. I think the lecturers are starting to think you should be the one up at the front doing the teaching, you're old enough."

"Twenty-eight is hardly that mature, I still have plenty of learning to do." He snorted and went into the tiny kitchen area of the residential halls,

"I find that hard to believe." As soon as he was out of sight I allowed myself to slump back in my chair, just listening to the pounding of the blood in my ears, beating out a strange and uneven rhythm that felt too fast to be healthy. We were the only ones still awake and I had been hoping to… alleviate my symptoms when I had finished my experiment, drug use certainly wasn't going to interrupt with my research. It was doing it's best though, plaguing my every thought and turning my body into a quivering, sodden ball of aches and an ever-present need I'd never felt. I was going to give in soon... but now he was there, having spent the night in a certain…_ occupied_ bed, and he was getting in my way.

"Sometimes I wonder what's going on in that brilliant mind of yours." I sighed in agitation, not in the mood to talk,

"Significantly more than is going on in yours, I would imagine." He chuckled, but there was an angry - or was that hurt? - edge to it,

"Oh really? You think you're so much better than me." The last part wasn't a question, we both knew that, we both knew how highly I thought of myself and how insignificant everyone else's intelligence was in comparison. We also knew I was rather right.

"No." He looked up from his cup of tea in surprise, "I know I'm better than you, mentally at the very least. Now, if you'll excuse me I need to get back to work." He didn't break away from staring at my face, even when I dismissively turned back to the microscope, balling my shaking fist up and putting it out of sight and in my lap. I stared, without seing, down the microscope for a minute, irritation chewing on my final nerve until finally the rage bubbled out and I huffed a sigh and asked, "what? What now?"

"What's gotten into you recently Sherlock? When you got here, you were focused and determined, none of us understood why you wanted to get a degree, you didn't need one, and yet you were _going to get one. _Now you're always on edge, snarling and spitting at us and you barely concentrate at all." I shoved the microscope away,

"I am _fine, _Sebastian. I'm going to bed."

"No, you're not, you _never _go to bed. We've seen your room, you never sleep."

"Maybe I just sleep _elsewhere._" If anyone could appreciate that lie, it would certainly be Sebastian.

"Oh."

"So I'm going to bed, now, for real this time, if you don't mind."

"It's just- you're not looking well, Sherlock, and we're friends-"

"For FUCK's sake, Sebastian, I don't _have _friends, no-one wants to be friends me, why the hell would they? And would I want to be friends with ordinary people with boring little brains like yours, walking around here like you're the most impressive thing on Earth? Get your head out of your arse and piss off." He looked like a mixture between a wounded puppy and a puffed up cat about to attack, I knew he didn't want to be friends… he'd wanted _more, _for quite a while. Perhaps romantically... more likely just physically. But I didn't do that sort of thing, I hadn't since I had parted with Elizabeth and I wouldn't do it again until I found the right person, I wouldn't waste something so meaningful on someone so pathetic.

"I only meant-"

"That I look ill, yes I feel it! I feel ill, I understand, I don't need you bleeding pointing it out for me because I KNOW! I get it and I don't want to _fucking talk about it_, so just SHUT UP! Goodnight, Sebastian."

I only just managed to stumble out in the hallway, my head splitting in pain and my entire body giving out. I slumped against the hallway wall, just out of his line of sight, a stabbing pain in my gut. How could I have been such an idiot? I'd started with opium, as I had occaisionally used years ago, just before I went into the freakshow, and then it had progressed to Cocaine, to try and take away the pain, to forget that look in Mycroft's eyes when he'd finally found out the truth, to delete his horror, and to try and push away my ghosts but now that pain was only being replaced with physical pain and the memories still plagued me. Just as they always had, lurking somewhere in my eternally damaged psyche.

I'd left it too long between fixes, I knew that now. I'd been so determined to finish my experiment that I hadn't had a dose in some time and my body was rebelling, detoxing automatically and it felt like I was dying, as I scrabbled against the wall for purchase, too stubborn to fall and too weak to stand, panting through the pain and barely able to see. I didn't even realise through the haze of pain that I had been violently sick, until I saw the vomit on my front, I certainly had no idea how long I'd been slumped half on my side up against the wall. I coughed and forced myself upright, as Sebastian stumbled into the hallway upon hearing my retching,

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock are you alright?" I pushed him away,

"What do you think?"

"Someone get an ambulance!" My head was splitting, why was he shouting? "Wake up, someon-" I shoved him back,

"Why the Hell are you shouting?"

"Because there's something wrong and you're not drunk so you need a hospital-"

"What's going on out here?" About five of the students were beginning to stick their befuddled faces round their doors, hair standing on end and eyes bleary in the light, having been rudely woken by his shouting, I certainly didn't miss that Melissa at the end of the hallway had another student poking his head round the door with her,

"Sherlock's sick, really sick-"

"He's just drunk-"

"Sherlock doesn't get drunk!" I shoved him out the way, stumbling towards my bedroom, hissing back over my shoulder,

"Sherlock can speak for himself thank you very much and he says he's going to be fine, he just needs to go to bed!" Sebastian was panicking, talking to one of the medical students,

"He's been sick and look at him, he's shaking, he's got a splitting headache, he was sat with his head on the table for about an hour earlier, in pain, and didn't even notice me in the room-" The list just seemed to go on and on, the girl looking concerned and I didn't need concerned, if there was concern then there was interest. If there was interest then there was the discovery of a small bottle of 7% in my possession in my dorm room.

"Sebastian's being ridiculous, and overprotective, just because he's in love with me." There was a collective gasp and Sebastian looked at me, utterly appalled,

"Wha- how did yo-"

"Know? How did I know? The fact you've been 'shagging', as you so delightfully put it, Steve over there – hello Steve-" Steve waved back, looking very small and upset at the revelation of not only his sexuality but the fact that the person he was in love with was in love with someone else, who was revealing their tryst now, "that certainly hinted at the sexuality. The staring at me longingly, trying to kiss me when you got drunk and constantly trying to spend time with me and show concern for my wellbeing were just confirmation."

Sebastian crossed to where I stood, fists curling into a ball,

"You utter _bastard._ I- I can't believe you, you're just- how did you even know about me and Steve?!"

"The bite marks intended to be hidden by your shirt collars show a relationship built on a mutual shame in your sexualities, if you were seeing a girl you wouldn't have needed to hide the marks, I only saw them because they were occasionally exposed when your shirts slipped. Then there was the awkwardness in the kitchens, between the two of you, your blonde hairs on his brush – but not long enough to be a woman's – indicates you were sharing, like a couple, and the mingling aftershaves. It was really _very _obvious, almost as obvious as your fruitless feelings for me. Go to bed, Sebastian, I don't need your help."

He turned to go, as the other students closed their doors awkwardly on the scene, but then turned and promptly punched me in the face, adding to the existing exploding pain in my temple,

"You _freak, _I don't know what I ever saw in you." When he was gone, his door closing in my face, I heaved my way halfway up using the wall to support my weight, finally alone in the corridor, and crawled to my bedroom. I collapsed onto the bed just as the vomiting started again and then suddenly the bed sank beside me slightly and a hand was running its fingers through my hair, as its owner tutted quietly,

"Oh Sherlock, you have gotten yourself into quite a state." I scoffed, pressing my face into her lap, not even sure how my head had gotten from the pile of vomit into the familiar lap,

"Well that's what happens when you leave people behind. They go to pieces."

"Well now I know you're entirely delirious. You left _me _Sherlock, I might have died but you're the one who walked away from me and our son first. You're the one who left." I choked slightly but I couldn't be sure if that was from the sick or the sobs that were threatening to overwhelm me,

"I didn't realise- I didn't know!"

"I know sweetheart. I'm sorry, I should have told you." I pressed my face harder in her lap,

"Yes, you _bloody _well should have."

"And you tried to make up for it, didn't you? With Mycroft, you thought you could look after someone else's child, to try and make amends for not looking after your own." I scoffed,

"Yeah, and look how that's turned out. I'm alone in a university dorm with a bunch of kids, who I'm over a century older than, going through detox in a pool of my own vomit, talking to someone who's not really there. You're not real, so just leave me alone." She retracted hand,

"Fine, if that's what you want." I threw my head up, a second too late, the room spinning in a sickening swirl of gloom and colour that increased the nausea,

"Wait- no! Elizabeth?!" But she was gone, when my head fell back down again it didn't land on soft fabric and smooth thighs, instead it landed with a squelch in a pile of sick, making me shudder. The pain was getting worse, I couldn't do it. I couldn't.

I rolled off the bed, groaning in pain as I collided with the hard floor, sending a spasm of pain through my aching body. My hand reached out on its own accord, seeking desperately to soothe my pain and feeling the smooth cold feeling of glass, and then the achingly sweet taste of 7% dancing through my veins and making the pain go away.

She was gone, the memories of Mycroft were gone, it was all _gone. Gone. Gone. _Finally. And my brain was finally slowing down, allowing my out of control brain and memories to slow down. The polished gears and clogs that kept my brilliance constantly running like a perfect machine, better than those useless like clockwork wind-up toys my fellow students called 'brains', let out a clunk and then gave up for a couple of hours of absolute _bliss_ and I was free. Free of the pain, of the feelings, of the memories and the speed of my thoughts.

I must have blacked out because the next thing I knew the wonderful feeling was gone, only to be replaced by voices colliding with and jarring on my eardrums, assaulting them, too loud and brash for my migraine,

"Oh God, is he dead?"

"What's that in his arm? Are those track marks?! Is that a needle?!"

"Are they drugs?"

"Sebastian, come away from him."

"I'm checking his pulse! If he's dead then good riddance to him-"

"How can you say that? You were in love with him a couple of hours ago!" He's still in love me, I wanted to add, he was just trying to pretend to save face, but I was too weak, barely able to muster up the strength to move my chest enough to even breathe.

"I wasn't thinking straight, now I can see what he really is. A freak, I mean look at him!"

I squeezed my eyelids open and let out a sharp hiss as light bombarded my senses, setting my head off pounding again, the relief of the cocaine having fled hours ago, the last of my stash. I would have to locate my dealer sometime soon. Very soon, actually. By the end of the day, I needed more and more to get that blissful feeling, my tolerance was building up. I'd already sold Victor's home - it was a sacrifice but I needed to get away and get rid of those feelings, beside it was staying in the family, Mycroft's father had bought it, as a childhood memory for Mycroft, though the man refused to speak to me when he bought it - and the money was beginning to need to stretch.

"Well he's alive."

"Really, you can feel his pulse?"

"No. He's looking at me." Sebastian leant down and then I felt the soft brush of warm breath on the shell of my ear, making me shudder,

"I'll get you back for making a fool of me Sherlock. No-one makes me look like an idiot-"

"No-one needs to make you look like one... since you _are _one." He sneered at me,

"I'm going to get you chucked out." I glared up at him through the pain, the effect probably decreased by the fact I was squinting against the bright lights that was stinging my corneas and I couldn't even lift my head to glare at him properly, I was too weak,

"Go ahead, I hardly need the degree. I'm only hear for the teaching and they're all morons, it's insufferable. I just wanted to get away from my life and now I'll happily get away from you."

"Last chance Sherlock. I'm sure we could come to an arrangement-" I chuckled, even though it only made the pain worse and I knew I was in no position to condescend,

"You're actually saying that if I love you, then you won't get me thrown out... you're trying to call my bluff that I don't care, when there's no bluff to be called. I honestly don't care about this university, and I dislike blackmailers even more Sebastian, so do as you will. I'll leave gladly."

Needless to say, I was out on my arse by the end of the day.

**AN. And now we know where Sebastian's comment, about Sherlock knowing who people were shagging in university, came from. Sebastian and Steve. I like to think that since we don't know much about Sebastian in the show, that him and Steve are still together now, in the future, silently hating each other but having been in a partnership for years. And Steve owns a dog grooming salon. Don't ask me why... that's just what I imagine. **


	22. 2002 - Rock Bottom

**AN. Slowly but surely Frankenstein is transitioning to Sherlock and we're edging closer and closer to the start of our modern day retelling, from 2010 onwards, with more familiar faces showing up.**

2002 – Rock Bottom

Third Person POV

London was known for its hustle and bustle, the odd cataclysm of old buildings made of brick and mortar and modern glass skyscrapers that were gradually being a erected, but it was almost known for the dreary weather. And today was certainly no exception, he thought, on his brisk walk through the streets of London, tucking the ends of the scarf down his suit front and away from the whip of the biting wind. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat. He still didn't understand why his wife had bought it for him, an extremely expensive gift which was too long, he needed a few extra inches to pull it off successfully, and too… flashy for his taste with its long tails that made him feel like a kid trying to play dress up with a superhero coat. He sighed, she'd been unusually nice of late after the constant bickering in previous months, God knows what she was after.

Snow was beginning to fall, biting the tip of his running nose, and he was glad that he was only minutes away from home, wishing he had a car to drive himself to and from work. But, as his wife reminded him, they didn't need a car since he only lived a ten minute walk from work. He was roused from his thoughts by the sound of a hacking cough, which certainly didn't sound healthy, whoever was making that noise probably needed a doctor. As soon as he stopped in his tracks, looking for the source of the noise, in stopped and a deep, velvety voice muttered to itself,

"God, thirty years in the artic and I go and get a cold now, of all times?"

"Hello? Are you alright?" The man whipped his head around, looking for the owner of the voice, "where are you?" The other man chuckled,

"I never really believed it but the homeless really are invisible, aren't they?" Finally, he spotted a bundle of sleeping bags and blankets only a few metres away, with nothing but two eyes and a bright red nose visible,

"What are you doing down there?"

"For a Sergeant at Scotland Yard, you're not very bright, are you?" The other man stumbled back slightly in shock,

"How did you know I work for the police, I'm in plain clothes!"

"When you saw me you reached for your pocket, an unconscious movement common with anyone who typically has a badge or ID as part of your job… from the polish of your shoes and the respectable cut of your clothes, and the age range indicating rank, I took a guess. And it would appear I'm right."

"Yeah, you were-"

"Although I'd judge that you're up for promotion shortly, since you're putting in the extra hours… not even the most dedicated police man would be out this late if he wasn't getting something out of it." The silver haired sergeant was looking more and more shocked by the second,

"Yeah, I'm up for evaluation for promotion sometime in the next few days, that's- well that was-"

"Irritating? Are you going to tell me to piss off like the other drug addicts do? Turns out they don't like me knowing why they turned to drugs, and they hate me laying out their dirty laundry for others to see… and they certainly don't like to face it themselves."

"No, I'm not going to tell you to go anyway. Drug addict, did you say?" The other man scoffed,

"Are you going to arrest me? Search me for illicit substances because I don't have any-" He let out a groan he seemed to have been holding back for some time, "as the detox will probably tell you."

"No, I'm not going to search you. Where do you live?"

"I have a house in Belgravia, three storeys, extremely nice," he replied sarcastically, "where do you think I live? I'm a drug addict with no drugs, clearly I have no money left. I sold my house years ago and bled that fund dry quite quickly, then I sold my flat in London, now I live here."

"How do you get the money to fund your habit then?"

"Pick-pocketing mostly, blackmailing the dealers with information about affairs or double crossings on their parts that could get them killed or divorced, I'm not an idiot-"

"Well I'm not so sure about that, since you've just told me – a Scotland Yard Officer – all of the illegal activities you've been getting up to, and I could and should arrest you." The skin around the other man's eyes crinkled, letting the officer know that he was smiling behind the sleeping bag, which slipped down slightly to reveal razor sharp cheekbones,

"Ah, but that's the thing, isn't it? You have no intention of arresting me… you've already decided to help me. The wife off on a business trip for the week, is she?"

"Yes, why?"

"Get rid of her, she's having an affair with her personal trainer." The man gaped at him, looking irritated,

"Excuse me? How dare you say something like that and how exactly would you know about-"

"The affair? Well you're wearing an extremely expensive jacket for a police officer, Spencer Tracy I believe, clearly from your spouse or your mother since she knows your size. Such an expensive gift it usually indicative of guilt, so I guessed wife, especially since you're wedding band's starting to look a bit worst for wear, marriage on the rocks is it?"

"Look, kid-" The other man scoffed slightly at the term, "I don't know what your game is making up stories but I want to help you. Take back what you said about my wife and I'll let you kip at mine for the night-"

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"No, I won't take it back."

"You'd rather sit out here and freeze to death?"

"No, I'd rather be right."

"So being right is more important to you than having a warm place to sleep and a possible friendship? Is it more important than having a family or a loved one too?"

"It is now."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I wasted a lot of time trying to have those things, and failed every time. Do you know the one thing I did have though? My intellect, my ability to be _right,_ so I won't lie to you and pretend that your wife isn't having an affair, when I know she is, even at the cost of a warm bed and meal."

"Who said anything about a meal?" The other man laughed,

"You're used to cooking for two, since the wife is clearly away you'd happily cook for me and judging by the healthy food in your shopping bags which you've passed me with recently, she's on a health kick... clearly to keep up the pretense of needing a personal trainer for exercise."

"And how did you know she was away?"

"Must I explain myself constantly?"

"Yes."

"Fine, it was the wrinkles on your shirt. She's been away for a substantial amount of time because you've gotten through your clothes, and they're starting to get rumpled due to reuse without ironing."

"She's on a business retreat."

"If by business she means fitness retreat with her personal trainer and by fitness she means sex, then yes she's on a business retreat." The sergeant just shook his head, his marriage wasn't great but she wouldn't cheat on him. With a sigh, he removed his jacket and tossed it over to the pile of sleeping bags,

"Since you're not going to come home with me, you might as well have that to keep you warm. Try not to sell it straight away. Oh, and I'm Greg by the way. Greg Lestrade." The other man nodded,

"Sherlock Holmes."

"That's an odd name."

"Isn't it just? Goodbye Sergeant Lestrade."

The next day Gregory Lestrade took the same route home, denying a lift from one of his colleagues, out of curiosity and sure enough there sat a man, in the snow which had settled to a couple of inches deep overnight, with that expensive coat wrapped around his skinny body. Even from a distance, and even though the man was sitting down, Lestrade already knew he looked better in the coat than he had. His wife would be furious though… although did he really mind? If she did indeed buy it out of guilt over an affair did he want her gift at all? He wished she would just come home; they really needed to talk about this, because Sherlock had gotten into her head and made a nest of insecurities to sleep in.

He walked a bit closer, noticing that Sherlock was reading something,

"Back so soon, Lestrade?" The man jumped, he hadn't even noticed Sherlock look at him,

"Yeah, suppose I am... you can call me Greg by the way-"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's my name?"

"Is it? I must have deleted it."

"Deleted it?"

"Yes, deleted it, since it held no importance to me."

"You're in a more cheerful mood today, I see."

"I've got a good book and a good dose, what's there to be unhappy about?"

"The fact you have no home, no job, no future prospects, it's freezing cold and you're living in a sleeping bag in the snow?" Sherlock just shrugged, turning back to his book with a small smile, "you know, I'm perfectly justified in taking the drugs away from you, it would be saving you from yourself actually-"

"Yes, it probably would be, and you could give it a go but I think you'd find it very difficult to take the cocaine out of my system. I injected a few minutes ago."

"Wait, so you're high at the moment?"

"As an aeroplane… and I am informed that they go very high indeed."

"Yes, I suppose they do-" The older man sighed before sitting down in the snow next to him, looking over his shoulder,

"Gray's anatomy? Where'd you get that from and why?"

"I rescued it from the tedium of the library-"

"You mean you stole it?"

"I prefer the term rescued. No one had read it for two years and books at meant to be read, I'm helping it fulfill it's life's purpose. And I like to keep my brain in working order, and filled with the necessary facts, I did used to be a doctor after all."

"A doctor? Seriously?"

"Yes, rehabilitation. And no, not drug rehabilitation, the sort that follows after injuries and disfigurements. There's no irony in that. I did specialise briefly in forensic pathology but the cases just weren't interesting enough back then."

"You make it sound like it was a long time ago."

"Well it was." The other man shook his head,

"I really don't understand you. You're only… what twenty nine? You look twenty nine, maybe slightly older," The younger man shrugged, giving no alternative age and no confirmation, "and yet you sound like you've had an entire career behind you."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Well maybe you could help me with this case I've been struggling with." It was the most difficult case of his career and his superiors had made it clear that his promotion to detective inspector rested on solving this case. But the locked doors, the toxicology reports, the numerous romantic liaisons of all involved parties, but lack of jealously, and lack of motives had him stumped. So he told Sherlock everything, just trusting him naturally with the information, as if he knew he could trust him with it all, and at the end of it Sherlock said just one sentence,

"Arrest the brother of the victim for incest and test her for STDs." And he said no more.

The next day the inspector came raising up the alleyway, seeing the now familiar bundle of sleeping bag and blankets, lying on its side, and shouting in excitement,

"You were right Sherlock, bloody hell you were right, they've promoted me! They couldn't believe I solved it so quick, you're honestly brilliant. High as a kite and you solved the most complex case I've had-" He stopped, looking down at his new – dare he say it – friend, "Sherlock?" He ducked down to his level, taking in his pale blue lips and shallow breaths, and the small pool of sick by his mouth, "Sherlock! Oh God, what's happened? You better not have overdosed, not on a day like today. Today was supposed to be a good day." He fumbled around in his pockets with numb fingers, finding the mobile with difficulty and stabbing in the number, "hello, ambulance? I've got a man here with suspected overdose, an alleyway off North Gower Street, he's homeless. Okay, thanks." They talked him through the resuscitation, until he could see Sherlock's chest begin to move more deeply and the eyes fluttering behind his lids, as the ambulance raced towards them, a response time of just under seven minutes from Bart's.

A few hours later, Sherlock was still unconscious but he was alive at least, and that was all that mattered at the moment. They said it was a miracle, that he should have died long ago judging by the number and age of the track marks and scars on his arms, he had clearly been using for nearly ten years. He must have overdosed on multiple occaisions, and the risk of disease from contaminated needles? What could possibly have caused this man so much pain, that he needed to block it all out like this? But then they did say that geniuses were the most troubled people and, even having spent just a few short minutes in total with him, he already knew Sherlock was a genius, someone just needed to reach out and get him back on track.

They ushered him into a seat at Sherlock's bedside, in the absence of family members they had let him be the sole person standing guard over him. His eye lids fluttered as soon as they were on their own and then Sherlock was glaring at him, trying to speak through the oxygen mask over his face and just mumbling indistinctly,

"Sorry, what's that Sherlock?" Frustrated, Sherlock reached up and pulled the mask out the of the way,

"Why- 'm I in 'ospital?"

"Because you bloody overdosed you idiot-"

"Wouldn- kill me. Never- does."

"How many times have you-? You know what? I don't want to know. For someone so intelligent you're a bloody idiot, I'm taking you back to my home and stopping this, no more, I won't see a brilliant mind like yours rot in a cocktail of drugs, I'm putting an end to it."

"No."

"Do you want to keep taking drugs?"

"No."

"Then let me take you home!" He shook his head again, looking like he could barely hold it up,

"No- can't. Leaving." He began to pull wires out with a new found strength, swinging his legs out of the bed,

"Sherlock! Stop it!" Sherlock looked up at him blearily, before falling back against the pillows,

"Who've you told- my name to?"

"The doctors obviously, they needed your name when I admitted you-" He stopped halfway through his sentence, as he realised that Sherlock had let his head fall back against the pillow, groaning and just repeating,

"No, no, no. Tell me you didn't. No, no... no."

"Sherlock, I don't understand, why shouldn't I have told them your nam- oh. I see. You're running away from someone. That's why you've been living on the streets, you're avoiding someone, you can trust me Sherlock to keep them away from you now, though."

"He'll find me- he's been trying to get to me for years now."

"Who has? Sherlock? Tell me and I can keep you safe-"

"My arch-nemesis, he keeps chasing after me, demanding we talk." His head fell back, exhausted from his distress, as he slowly drifted into sleep. Lestrade got to his feet and went to the door, where he found two nurses discussing Sherlock's treatment,

"Excuse me?" They turned to him, one smiling warmly at the handsome man and the other looking over his shoulder, at his friend sleeping in the bed, the former asking,

"Can I help?" He nodded, pulling out his badge,

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, this man is extremely vulnerable at the moment and I don't want anyone to be admitted into the room except the doctors and the nurses needed to treat him. Anyone else and I want you to have my express permission, okay?"

"Of course, detective." He nodded gratefully before closing the door and returning to his seat, where he kept watch over his sleeping friend.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew someone was gently shaking his shoulder,

"Detective Inspector? There's a man here asking to be allowed in to see Sherlock- a Mr… Michael Holmes, I think he said, who says he's family. Should I let him in?"

"No, no. I'll meet him out in the hallway, but thank you for letting me know."

He looked at Sherlock, he seemed to still be out like a light, and heaved himself up, grimacing at the aches in his bones, he was already starting to feel old and he'd hadn't even hit middle-aged, at 36 he was still considered a youngish man. He made care to close the door behind him, as gently as possible, before turning to face the man who he had been summoned to talk to.

He looked about his age, perhaps a little bit younger, with a very tall frame which was starting to pad out and a long - slightly hooked - nose like an eagle's beak, with the same sort of gaze and presence as a bird of prey, wearing a bespoke pinstripe three piece and fidgeting with his hands, as if he couldn't quite figure out what to do with them. He was pacing slowly, with a look of displeasure evident on his face,

"How dare they refuse me access to my own brother? One day, one day I will not need anyone's clearance, when I get that promotion I will do as I damn well please." Lestrade cleared his throat,

"Can I help you?"

"Ah, the newly promoted detective inspector."

"How did you know about my promotion?"

"I learnt deduction from the very best."

"You mean Sherlock?"

"Yes, he practically raised me." The police officer chuckled, crossing his arms,

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you? You're the same age as me, and I'm older than Sherlock, so how exactly could he have raised you?"

"Appearances can be deceiving." He raised an eyebrow, "you look surprised."

"Well that's the second time a Holmes has said that to me on our first meeting, and it was in exactly the same context. But it's impossible, Sherlock's younger than thirty three, he has to be-"

"Nothing is impossible with that man; I should know."

"Well where have you been then? If you claim to know Sherlock so well, why have you left him to die in the gutters without a friend in the world?"

"It would not have been the death of him, believe me. Regrettably, we had a falling out… I have tried to get into contact over the past few years but he has refused on multiple occasions, he went so far as to sell his home and live on the streets in the hopes of being untraceable. For the most part it has worked… until you filed a medical report under his name. My tracking devices saw the name and I followed you both here."

"What are you, some sort of spy?"

"I occupy a minor role in the British Government." And unlike later incidences in life, when he would later use that phrase, it was quite truthful. Perhaps he was slightly more than minor but he had yet to make his mark, that would come in the next few years. Greg squared up to him,

"It seems like he's gone to a lot of trouble to stay away from you, why should I allow you access now?"

"Because I just want to speak with him, to explain. I've changed since the last time we met."

"Clearly whatever you did really hurt him, why would he want to speak to you? And why have you had this change of heart, why do you have the sudden need to make amends? You hardly seem the sort."

"I'm not. But one makes exceptions for family. He's my brother and it was only a few years ago that I began to really understand what that meant when the paternal side of my family severed ties and I was forced to go to my maternal family tree, a tree which encompassed Sherlock. I realise now how good he was to me in my youth and what family really mean. I know my relationship with him is unsalvageable but… I want to at least try, he deserves that much after being the only family member that always stood by my in my youth and never turned his back."

"Until now? Because it seems like he has firmly turned away from you-"

"Only after I did so to him. He may seem it, but he's not a cold person… he's very feeling deep down, but he has a lot of scars that prevent us from reaching that nowadays. I am sorry to admit that contributed to a great number of those scars and I want to try and undo some of them, to take back the dreadful things that I said to him because – having had time to think them through – I realise I was wrong." It looked like it greatly pained him to say this, he looked like he was wrong on only very rare occaisions... and he admitted it even more rarely. For a long moment they were silent and then the detective inspector ran a hand over his face and through his hair,

"Fine, I'll let you see him for just a couple of minutes." The man nodded, looking extremely grateful, until they opened the door to find an empty hospital bed.

"He's gone again."

"Where could he have-?"

"No doubt he heard the nurse summoning you to see me, I imagine he guessed that I was here and ran. It will be a fair few months before I even get wind of his location again."

"Well, if I hear anything from him then I'll let you know, Mr Holmes."

"I'm sorry to say it Gregory but, unfortunately, I do not think you will be seeing my brother again for quite some time, if at all. He won't make that mistake, if he thinks you'll help me get in contact, and perhaps it's for the best, for you at least. Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous and unstable man, he can't have friends… they always wind up in a very bad way. I'm sorry, and I suppose this is goodbye."

And with a handshake and a curt nod, the Holmes family was gone from his life. He didn't see hide nor hair of Sherlock again.

That is, until three years later.


	23. 2005 - Antimony

2005 - Antimony

Lestrade POV

For the past three years, I wondered. I couldn't get him out of my head, even though I'd hardly even known him, we'd probably spent no more than three hours together and he had been unconscious for the most part of it and yet he'd left a massive imprint on my life; because of him, my cheating ex-wife was gone, leaving me alone in a small bachelor pad having taken everything in the divorce, including our dog, and we'd never had kids. I'd always wanted them but she just 'never felt like she was in the right place' until of course she moved her personal trainer in, and they had a baby not long after. And then there was the other major mark he'd made on my life, my promotion.

Once I was in the role of Detective Inspector, everything clicked and I gained confidence, Sherlock might have gotten me the position quickly but I knew I could have, and would have, gotten the position on my own. But occasionally, on a particularly rough case, I thought about that man I'd known for all of three days, who'd had such an impact in that short time, and I wished I had him to help me. There were too many cases left unsolved and I felt in my gut that they could have been resolved if that man came back.

I looked for him constantly; I refused lifts from my colleagues everyday so I could walk down that alleyway, just on the tiny slim chance that I might stumble across a person in a sleeping bag. Every time I passed a homeless person I stopped and looked more closely, only to be disappointed. I was terrified about what might happen to him; he could have overdosed, frozen to death, been abducted off the streets by sick people, anything. Every so often I put his name in the lost persons database but his profile remained unchanged. There wasn't much there, a picture of him which seemed very dated… they normally said a recent picture but he looked exactly the same, with the same high cheekbones, shallow wrinkles around his eyes and forehead, and piercing eyes. The photograph, if you looked closely enough, looked like it had been taken in the seventies, he was looking up at the camera intensely but there was a slight quirk to his lips indicating his true feelings.

In it, he was sat on a sandy beach with his knees drawn up to his t-shirt covered chest, wearing swim shorts, with a small boy beside him as they made a sandcastle. Sherlock was as pale as I remembered, surprisingly un-burnt but had dark curls. When I had seen him in the hospital it seemed to be a dark reddish blonde at the ends made all the darker by grease and dirt, with a whole mix of natural colours growing through. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light.

There had been a lot of correspondence actually, people saying that they recognised him from old photographs with their grandfathers in world war one, elderly people saying that he had been their doctor – usually this was discounted as being the accounts of the confused elderly or Alzheimer's – but there were a few people saying they recognised him from working with them a few years back in Oxford's labs, he had been a researcher there, or that they met him at conferences. He seemed to have moved around considerably but the thing that didn't add up was that everyone said the same age range from 28 to 34, and that was ranging from accounts in the 1910s to the present day. The most recent sighting had been in Switzerland, apparently he had somehow managed to travel all the way out there on a trip to Lake Geneva a few months ago, and broken into a large empty mansion belonging to a family in England, who had not been named. He had even been sighted a few weeks prior leaving flowers on a gravestone in Scotland, but he was gone by the time the policeman had got there. I don't even know how the police in those distant areas had known to keep looking out for him specifically but apparently someone had contacted them to assure them of the area's sentimental significance to Sherlock. I suspected that it was the same man who had come searching for him at the hospital. One thing that all the different accounts told me though was that maybe Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't been lying, maybe he was actually considerably older than he looked… as impossible as it seemed.

I got the call at three in the morning, a murderer in Hampstead, of a man found in his bed. I pulled myself up, feeling more dead than alive at such an early hour, and arrived not long after to find one of the new sergeants, Donovan, chatting up the forensics guy, who's name I always forgot. He was an unpleasant bloke though so I avoided contact where possible, remembering his name would make it harder to avoid him. Donovan hurried over, looking far too keen, I knew her type. Power hungry and intent on getting to the top, no matter how she did it, and not liking it when anybody else was successful,

"What's happened then?"

"We got the call at 2:21am, the hysterical wife, she claims she just woke up to find him dead next to her. They're both 31 years old, fairly well off as you can see from the neighbourhood, the forensic guys are in there at the moment, Anderson," oh yeah, that was the guy's name, "thinks it's simply a case of antimony poisoning, by the wife. She's been having an affair, he was taking medication for depression – a symptom of small doses of antimony – and he vomited extensively before his death."

I nodded, yawning and wishing I'd stopped for coffee,

"Anyone taken a statement from the wife?" She shook her head,

"She claims she's in shock, she's been sick and is hyperventilating, you can try to talk to her but it'll be rather difficult." I nodded, feeling like it would be important. I don't know why but I got a gut feeling that Donovan was wrong, that the wife might not be involved.

"I'll have a quick sweep over the crime scene and then go to see if she's calmed down."

By the time I was finished looking at the crime scene, she had calmed down a bit, looking quite pitiful and slightly dizzy, she was shaking under her shock blanket,

"I can't- oh God, I can't believe he's dead. My poor Charles, oh my love-"

"Mrs Addison, I'm afraid I need to ask some routine questions about your husband." She looked up at me, wiping away tears,

"You think I killed him don't I? I loved my husband, I would never kill him! Arrest me if you must but I'm not saying any more than that without a lawyer present." I sighed and was about to try another tactic when a voice shouted from the doorway,

"Sir, you may want to have a look at his-" I frowned, looking at Donovan's shocked expression and turning to one of the other sergeants, gesturing for him to make sure the wife didn't do a runner, what I found in the basement was surprising to say the least. The couple had seemed like an ordinary, unassuming pair and here they were with a cocaine stash large enough to get even a herd of elephants higher than Dumbo,

"Bloody hell, someone arrest the wife, she must know something about this-" There was shouting somewhere in the house, and I saw the wife running away from the sergeant, having slipped his grasp and run to me, pleading,

"It's not mine; I don't know anything about it! Call my cousin, he's a detective, he'll help me, he'll tell you the truth!" I shook my head,

"I'm afraid we don't consult private detectives, Mrs Addison-"

"Then treat him as a suspect, he was a customer of my husband, they never said what he bought but he always said Charles was no good for me. Please, even if you arrest me then get him here, he can tell you the truth, he's my cousin, he'll help me." They were leading her to the car now, "please, he's called Sherlock Holmes and the number is in my address book. I didn't do this, I'm not guilty, please." Sherlock! She had Sherlock Holmes and I was fairly certain there wasn't another one of those anywhere in the world. And if he was that Sherlock then there was no-one better than I can think of to solve this.

I found the book fairly easily, it was sat on the table in the hallway, and there it was written, the name Sherlock Holmes in almost illegible writing in an elegant script which seemed centuries old, which had been disfigured by a shaking, sweaty hand, "Sherlock Holmes" followed by tiny neatly written letters. I almost couldn't believe my luck, stumbling across the number in the book, the number of the man he wanted to see even after three years… but then he realised the connection. The cocaine downstairs and the number of a cocaine addict? Could it be that Sherlock wasn't in fact a cousin but a customer?

There was only one way to find out, the other officers would disapprove of me calling in an amateur, and possibly a suspect, but I needed to get in contact and to be frank I was stumped. There was no way the wife could have poisoned him because she supposedly had an alibi that she was at work until late and he had cooked the meal, which we were going to check out when people started to wake up, the forensics team still needed to test for the antimony but quite frankly her having an affair wasn't motive enough to want to kill him. Some of the neighbours had been woken up and asked about the couple and apparently they were very happy together, they didn't fight and she was a very pleasant woman. It just didn't add up, and if it was over money and the cocaine stash - as some of the officers were suggesting – then she wouldn't have killed him and then immediately called the police, without disposing of the stash.

I called from their home phone, I had no doubt that Sherlock had his phone number because I left a business card in the pocket of the jacket I gave to Sherlock and he would probably have saved the number into his mobile to prevent me from contacting him, by being able to identify and ignore it. Surprisingly, even though it was only four in the morning, the other end quickly connected and the voice asked, deep and with a slightly old fashioned, posh twang to it,

"Charles, I don't need any at the moment and I'm not doing a delivery at the moment, I am-"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, who is this?"

"This is a friend of Charles-"

"No, you're not."

"I'm sorry?"

"If you were a friend then you would call him Charlie, as his friends do, whereas the people he does not count as friends refer to him by his full name. Who are you really?"

"I'm a police officer, his wife told us to phone you – she claims you're a detective-"

"Of sorts, I help people with interesting cases, I'm a consulting detective."

"That's not a real thing."

"Yet."

"Fine, well at the moment we believe she may be the murderer and your name was mentioned, I would like to invite you to the crime scene."

"Interesting."

"Really? Why is that interesting?"

"Because the police do not consult detectives outside of their own, therefore you either know me from before now or you're working on a recommendation. Or you're inviting me for other reasons than the crime scene, I believe that may be a large contributing factor."

"Well, are you coming or not?"

"Yes, I am, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"How did you-?" The phone went dead before the end of the conversation, as I worried if he really would come.

And then, twenty minutes later, there was the sound of Donovan arguing with someone, with a low voice, and I thought that this was it, he was finally here, I'd been waiting to see him again for some time. I had to force myself not to rush outside, where I saw a tall figure – much taller than I'd realised he was, since I'd only ever seen him sitting of lying down – talking to her. He was very svelte and a fair few inches taller than me, and he still wore the coat that I had given him on that first day, though it was dirtier now, it suited him though. It made him look like a superhero when the tails were whipped out behind him in the wind, like a cape, although he was seething like a villain at the moment as she remarked,

"Sorry, no tourists allowed, we don't just let anyone walk onto a crime scene."

"I was asked her by your boss, Gregory Lestrade, so either let me in or I will walk away and he will never see me again, and you will have to explain why to him."

"Do you have any ID?"

"No. Go talk to your boss, I'm here to solve a murder and not chat to you."

"Yeah, sure you are. Is your minder anywhere nearby?"

"I don't need a minder!"

"Look, move along, we do not simply let random members of the public wonder onto crime scenes to gawp at the bodies!"

"I am not a member of the public, I am a consulting detective, so if you would kindly step aside-" He went to duck under the police tape but she stopped him,

"Oh no, you're going to have to wait here, like a good boy, until you have clearance." She smirked at him smugly, looking pleased that she seemed to have succeeded in getting him to stay put, she was testing him. And I knew how badly that would end, I had after all been on the receiving end of the X-Ray vision he was now focusing full beam on her, finished with playing along in her game,

"Just because you are frustrated with your pointless life, and the fact you're too talentless and unlikeable to go anywhere in your career, that does not mean you have to take out your frustrations on me." Her eyes narrowed, and her hand froze on her walkie-talkie – where she'd been about to call me – and when she finally responded her voice was far more shrill than she probably intended,

"Excuse me?" His eyes flicked up and down,

"Very close to the bottom of the class in your law degree, because you were too busy sleeping around and drinking to actually go to lectures or revise for exams, you failed. You wanted to be a barrister but you were too incapable, so you never got a job, so you thought you work as a police officer, make your way up and put it on your C.V. to boost you on your way to a high position as a lawyer. Sorry to disappoint, Sergeant Donovan, but that's not going to happen, you're going to be stuck in your job level for quite some time. But oh well, at least you have a boyfriend waiting for you at home… or will for a little while longer, until he finds out about you and idiot features over there, which will then turn into a long standing affair – oh no, it already has. Six months already, you requested a transfer to this unit at about that time, didn't you?

"You know, his wife might have something to say about all this… but then you probably don't care. The two failures of their professions stick together, the failed lawyer and the bottom rung forensics man who can't tell a blood splatter from a ketchup stain. I can see why you're frustrated with your life." He ducked under the tape and began towards me, having spotted me long ago I imagine but having only stuck around to deal with her treatment of him, before turning back for a second, "and to be quite frank, I think you should be. You're soon going to find out that I am much more intelligent than you, I solve cases that you never could already and this is only the start. So, rather than take your inferiorities out on me, why not do as Lestrade does? Accept that I am better and take my advice, it's what tipped him over the edge for promotion… and you need all the help you can muster."

He smirked as he turned back and continued walking towards me and I couldn't help my own small smile, until he reached the steps and the most horrendous word, the word he would later tell me was the most hateful in his vocabulary, was hurled at his back by Anderson, practically stabbing him in the back,

"Oi, _freak._" His entire body froze, he seemed to no longer see me, his gaze passing straight through me in his shock, before he turned on the spot to look at the other glaring, rat faced man, and snarled,

"What did you call me?" The other man smirked, clearly pleased to have hit a sore spot, a chink in Sherlock's armour,

"I called you freak because that is exactly what you are, a _freak_."

"Anderson," I shouted, "think very carefully about what you-" Sherlock's hand shot out, stopping me, and then suddenly that same hand swung round in a fist and sent the man sprawling. I had never imagined Sherlock to be a violent man and in later years he was only ever provoked to physical violence when he was attacked first, he was all about using someone's emotions and pasts against them, he was manipulative but never a hitter. But something told me this wasn't just about Anderson, because he didn't look well – he looked on edge and pale and drawn – and that word, that horrible word, was a reminder of everything that was wrong with his past and everyone who had ever called him that suddenly reared their heads and became one perfect target.

"Let me tell you something, Anderson, that word should be _banished_ from this language. I knew another man like you in my past. He was a man who liked to use that word to try and hurt men like me, to make them feel inferior, because he didn't understand those people because they were different. You're very like him, he used that word for the men he kept in his sideshow attraction, a showcase for a horrifically scarred man, my grandfather, a man who once had a good heart and a mind greater than yours, and he stripped him of his goodness. He beat him and spat that word at him and allowed the whole world to jeer at him until his whole world shattered. If you ever use that word around me again then I will make sure it is the last thing you ever do."

As if she just couldn't let him have the last word, despite everything that he had just said – and I knew there was a deeper meaning to all of that, I could see the pain in his eyes even though they couldn't and I knew his past, his drug addition – Donovan hissed after him,

"Fits you though, doesn't it freak?" His fists clenched and I briefly worried that I would have to run forwards and stop him, before he did something stupid which would get him arrested, "what are you going to do? Are you going to hit me?" His fist unclenched and he breathed out, before turning to face her and fixing her with a hard stare,

"No, I – of all people – know how wrong it is to harm a woman, I will never hit a woman. But know this, use that word around me and you will earn yourself an enemy. Very people have chosen to make an enemy of me but they have very much regretted that decision."

"We'll see about that."

He turned and stalked away, crossing to me, "close your mouth, Lestrade, or you'll start catching flies. Oh," he turned round once more, with a swish of his coat-tails, "and if you're going back to your boyfriend later, I suggest you do something around those stubble rashes along your chin, Sally, or he may just catch on."

"Show me the body, I need to get back to my own cases and away from your team." I lead him into the kitchen for a second, to put on the white suits and masks, although he ignored them and just let me change into them,

"So you're working then?"

"Yes."

"Detective work?"

"That's what we discussed on the phone."

"And that's why you haven't been in contact for three years?"

"No, as you are well aware, we haven't been in contact because you promised my brother that you would help find me. I do not associate with the man anymore and I certainly do not need _anyone _helping him to track me down, he's got enough lackeys as it is."

"Ah, so he got the promotion then?"

"He got several, he is – for all intents and purposes – the British Government. If I wasn't so good at hiding, and hadn't had so much practise, then I have no doubt he would have tracked me down by now."

"Why don't you want to talk to him? He wants to make amends with you and he's family-"

"Yes, thank you for your input Detective Inspector but I'm not here to get advice from you, I'm here for an interesting case and to find out who killed my deale- friend."

"So you're still taking?"

"Trying to stop." I looked at him more closely,

"You're on something at the moment, aren't you? You came to a crime scene, teeming with police on a murderer and drugs bust case, and you're pupils are constricted, you bloody idiot."

"Yes, well I injected a few hours ago so I'm of sound mind to help-"

"I'm not doubting your ability to solve the crime, I'm disapproving of your drug use as a concerned friend who hasn't seen you for three years and thought it might have killed you."

"Yes well, I'm clearly alive, and I'm trying to get off-"

"Funny way to try, by injecting a few hours ago."

"Get off of my back, Lestrade, you're not my father. You're not anyone's father. You're just a lonely detective whose wife, despite being the one who cheated, ditched him and took everything, even the dog. You're desperate to look after someone, and to have someone care, and you're shoving your concern down my throat."

"Are you finished?" He huffed slightly, "yes, I suppose you're right. I do want to take care of someone, it's what humans do. You're just snippy because you're on a comedown. I understand it's difficult to get off cocaine, that's why it's a class A drug, but I'm telling you now… turn up high to another one of my crime scenes and I won't let you in."

"What makes you think I'll come at your beck and call? I only answered today because it was someone else's number, how do you know I don't plan to drop off the map again?"

"Because you're trying to give up on cocaine and you're an addict. You need interesting cases, you knew from the second I said I was phoning because you were a detective that this would be interesting, that's why you came, even though you didn't want to see me. You came for the case and I'm fairly certain if I give you access to more, that's what you'll be addicted to, and I would much rather you be addicted to the job than the cocaine you've been buying. So I know that you will quit cocaine, if I let you on to my cases. Okay?"

"I can't just quit like that, cold turkey."

"You can and you bloody well will, and I'm going to help you. Where are you living?"

"Here and there."

"Not anymore, you're bringing whatever possessions you have and you're coming to stay with me. Then you're going to get clean, get a job and find somewhere to live."

"I have a job."

"Fine, you're going to make money from your job and contribute it to something other than illegal drugs."

"Fine."

"Well the body's in here."

"Yes, I don't particularly need to see it anymore."

"What?"

"I passed Jeanette, his wife, on the way up the street and spoke very briefly to her, but got everything I needed, and when we went into the kitchen so you could put that ridiculous suit on, I know exactly what happened."

"Oh… well, do tell."

"It wasn't antimony and it wasn't the wife… it was, in fact, the husband who was the murderer."

"What? He committed suicide?"

"No, if he committed suicide then I would have said he killed himself. Charles Addison was a drug dealer, I knew him well, he an organised group delivering drugs all over the city by pretending they were clients… for his male prostitution service."

"He- what? He was a male prostitute?"

"No, that's what he told anyone who asked. In reality, he found drug addicts living on the street, brought them back here, groomed them and used them as a delivery service; in exchange for drugs he had them deliver the drugs to over dealers to be sold, a very tidy little operation. His wife found out that he was working as a male prostitute, or at least that's how it appeared to her, which is why she started an affair to get her own back. When that didn't elicit the reaction she wanted, she threatened to tell people about his services, if she did that then he would be in trouble because then there would be enquiries into his services. Prostitution is not itself a crime… drug dealing is. So he needed to silence her-"

"But he was one who ended up dead, so how did that-"

"Let me finish, and I'll explain. The wife was breathless and dizzy earlier, and vomited, didn't she?"

"Yes, she was in shock because she woke up next to her husband to find he had died-"

"No, that's not what caused it. If your people had paid more attention, they would have noticed she had a rash and swelling around her lips, only slightly, and there was an epi-pen on the side in the kitchen. She has a food allergy, to mushrooms specifically. Her alibi was that she was at work last night, until she came home to find dinner prepared, so there was no time for her to cook dinner poisoned with antimony?"

"How did you know that?"

"I heard the officers discussing it on my way in. So she didn't prepare the dinner that killed him, he did. Her allergy is to mushrooms, I checked the bins out back before I came in, they had mushroom stalks in them. It's rare but I suspect she has a mushroom allergy, and the mushroom stalks match those of the mushrooms growing in the woodland areas of Hampstead Heath-"

"None of this explains how he died and not here-"

"I am getting there, will you just trust me?"

"Fine, go ahead."

"He cooked the dinner with the mushrooms he found on the heath, he didn't buy them because if you found the receipts it would look suspicious, a husband buying mushrooms when his wife is allergic. He picked them not knowing that they were Amanita phalloides, which he cooked into their meal and allowed her to eat but she only ate a very small amount before realising they contained the very food she was allergic to, the mushrooms are fatal on consumption. He ate the whole meal, before she got home, not realising that he was eating poison. She survived and he did not."

"That is remarkable." He just nodded,

"So you knew she had to be allergic to the mushrooms-"

"Because those toxic mushrooms have the exact symptoms displayed the husband, it was the only thing which made sense. There are no coincidences and this is why I know the exact geographical location of all poisonous plant and fungi in London and their associated symptoms. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going home."

"Have you forgotten what we discussed?"

"Not so much discussed, as you _telling _me what to do."

"You're coming home with me, I'm going to get you to go cold turkey and I'll be there the whole time. So I'm not taking my eye off you from now until you're locked inside my flat-"

"I can pick locks-"

"Running away whilst detoxing is hardly very likely. You're coming Sherlock, so come on, we'll get a cab."

He gave me one last, withering look and then sighed and gave in,

"Fine."

**AN. I'm pretty proud of this chapter because I thought up the whole case by myself, without help, and I did this all whilst practically falling asleep. Forgive any typos, I'll fix this chapter when I wake up tomorrow. Nightly bye xxx**


	24. 2005 - Detoxing

**AN. The fundraising plan has fallen through unfortunately, so just enjoy the updates, we're back to normal. Enjoy the chapters!**

Bile rose in my throat and discharged itself, my throat burning and making me choke, but then there was a hand on my back, and soothing words in my ear,

"Go on, get it all out, that's good." I groaned, resting my face on the cool porcelain of the toilet and shivering slightly, although I couldn't be sure if it was due to the cold or the tremors that constantly racked my aching body.

"Shu- 'p Lest-" I was stopped from finishing my sentence by sick rising up again, overflowing and making the pain in my stomach stab vindictively, "uuuugh."

"There we go, I think that's your body's way of saying shut up and let me comfort you." I shuddered again, collapsing over the toilet and being completely unable to imagine a time when the pain was gone and I could pull my heap of gelatinous bones up from the ground, not when my body was so utterly exhausted. He rested a hand on my forehead, tutting and sounding unhappy, "you're feverish."

"I'm detoxing." He reached up my armpits, hands slipping on slick fabric, and hissed,

"You've drenched that shirt and you're boiling, come on take it off-" With all of the strength I had remaining, I pushed him away from me, snapping at him,

"Get off!" The second he let go I dropped to the floor again, pain jarring through me and making me howl,

"Look, I know you're not in a great mood, what with me babying you," I didn't actually mind that as much as I had expected, it was almost nice for someone to look after me, to have a – dare I say it – father figure, "but there's no need to push me around. Especially not when you just end up hurting yourself." I tried to keep calm as I hissed,

"I don't want my shirt off." He scoffed,

"You're not body conscious, are you? I thought you of all people, as brazen and full of yourself as you are, would be content to swan round Buckingham palace without a shred of clothing on, for all your confidence." I didn't say anything, discomfort prickling under my sweating skin, "no! You're- you don't want me to see you without a shirt on!"

"Oh, piss off."

"Fine, I'll go get you a drink, I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

"Fine," I grumbled. I tried to not look like it but my entire body was anxious with the thought that he might try to get me to take my shirt off again and if he did that... well, there would be revelations that I didn't want. But then, I could feel my tongue getting loose from the pain and the light-headedness, the desire to confess my pains and be free, to lay myself bare and tell my story to someone was overwhelming.

But Lestrade would hate me, the second I told him, he would react as Mycroft had and I would lose a friend and any desire to finish my detox, and I'd be out on the street again. And I don't know but being here, with Lestrade, with the police, felt like the start of something new and... I don't know, worthwhile? It just felt like this was where I needed to be, that I could do this and maybe I would find my calling, the place I truly belonged... and with, the person to whom I belonged.

And then, my thoughts of the future and of love and companionship were thoroughly ruined by my already empty stomach trying to jump out of my throat and down the toilet.

Lestrade POV

I was filling a glass with water from the tap, exhausted from being up all day after my early start and being unable to take a nap because I was babysitting an addict who apparently didn't sleep, when I heard him talking and then... whimpering. It seemed impossible, it was hardly a noise that I would ever expect from that man, he seemed too proud and too strong to make such a noise but there it was, a tiny pitiful whine that reminded me of the puppy I had once found abandoned in the alleyway by my house. I pulled myself away from that thought because that puppy had eventually grown into the dog by ex-wife stole off me in the divorce, despite the fact she hadn't even wanted to keep him in the first place and the fact that she had then refused to look after him for years.

I put down the glass and rushed back towards the bathroom, only for the door to be thrown open, crashing against the wall with enough force to most likely dent the wall with the handle. Suddenly, he was hurling himself out of the room and onto the sofa. I froze, watching his trembling form ball itself up as small as possible, not sure how to react,

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He shot his hand out, stopping me in my path,

"Don't mock me, Albert... please. I have suffered enough without you treating me with false kindness, kill me or torture me but do not do it with false hope or friendship."

"Sherlock, stop it, it's me-"

"I know who you are Albert." He stumbled back up again, weak on his legs, and I darted forward to catch him, only for a fist to connect with me face. It wasn't particularly hard, he had all the strength of a drugged fairy, but the shock was enough to make me stumble back, staring at him,

"What are you doing?" He had shrunk back now, looking appalled and apologetic,

"I shouldn't have done that. Oh God, I shouldn't have-"

"No you bloody shouldn't have." I took a step forward, rubbing my jaw and almost jumped a foot in the air when he let out a shout, screaming at me to stop and staggering away from me,

"Please no, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. Don't whip me, Albert, I won't do it again, I promise!" I was floored... what had he said? Whip him? I don't know who the blazes this Albert was but Sherlock certainly wasn't painting him in a good light,

"Sherlock, I'm not Albert, I'm not! I promise you, it's me, it's Lestrade. We're friends," he had moved, crouching behind the sofa so that only his eyes and his mottled curls were poking out from behind the back. He looked so young and fragile, I wonder if he had always looked like that... until Albert ruined him. It would certainly explain... oh. Oh, I'd been a fool. Whippings left scars, he wouldn't have wanted me to see them, that's why he hid them under his shirt. Oh I was an idiot. A bloody fool. And now he probably thought I was towering over him, like that Albert, that I was about the heave my weight around and beat him! I would never- I_ could_ never do something like that. It made me feel physically sick at the thought.

I moved slowly, pacing me way around the sofa, keeping at the same radius in my circle around him, never stepping closer, and trying to move with the least sound and movement possible, so as to not alarm him. He was folded in on himself, arms wrapped around his body as if to shield himself or hold himself together, maybe even to hide himself, and he was clearly forcing himself to look down, to not make eye contact, as he kept muttering that he was sorry, that he wouldn't do it again.

"Sherlock, stop." He flinched, a visible reaction that shook his whole body, "it's my fault." He still didn't make eye contact but the shock was clear as day, as he stared at the floor, "I'm sorry, I didn't understand. But I'm not Albert, I'm Lestrade, and you can tell me anything. You can tell me what happened... what Albert did to you." He shook his head, the disarray of curls bouncing, slick with sweat and looking a flat brown in the dim light, though I knew that he had blondes and reds and blacks peppering the chestnut locks,

"No. I can't." I ducked down to his level, still not moving closer yet but holding out a hand, offering to take him out from his hiding space,

"You can tell me anything, Sherlock. I'm not Albert, that's just a hallucination, I'm Lestrade, I'm your friend and I'm here for you. You can tell me anything." His head moved just a fraction but there it was, eye-contact, and he was looking at me without that haze now, understanding,

"You're not-" I shook my head,

"No, I'm not."

"I thought you were-"

"Albert, I know. Who was Albert?" He didn't speak for a minute and I worried that I was rushing him or that he didn't want to tell me. I didn't want to push him because if I pushed too hard he would just topple straight back into the shell, I would lose the tentative trust I had been building with him since we had first met.

"Albert... Albert was my owner."

"I don't understand."

"I belonged to him, he owned me, do you not understand the simple concept of ownership?" That was more the Sherlock I knew.

"Of course I do but... you can't own someone, not anymore. Maybe in the nineteenth century-"

"Yes, that's when it was."

"Well now I know you're lying to me."

"Why would I lie about something like that?" The complete honesty in his tone shocked me, there wasn't even the slightest hint he was lying, but come on! The nineteenth century! It was just impossible, and I told him as much,

"I don't know what you'd have to gain from telling me that but there must be something-"

"I tell you that because it's the truth. I once told you it was more important to me to be right than to have a warm bed and a friend, that concept still applies. Throw me out if you think I'm lying to you but-"

"Oh shut up, you daft sod, you're not getting rid of me that easily, at least try a little bit harder if you want to get me to give up." He smiled slightly, the slightest twitch of his lips, and then he continued on, "my brother and I both have told you that I'm older than I appear. That's very true. I turned 187 years old this year."

"That's not possible."

"Anything's possible for me."

"How?"

"I don't even really know but it was my father's doing. I was born in 1818, I was bought by Albert in 1846... for his freak show." He must have heard the breath catch in my throat because he looked up sharply and then stumbled to his feet, "and that's quite enough of that, I don't really feel like talking about-" He turned to return to the bathroom but I caught his wrist, realising now that there was the very faintest of scars there. The only time I'd seen his forearms was in the hospital and I had been distracted by the track marks that told the story of his present that I hadn't seen the past that encircled his slim wrists, from bindings that imprisoned him in the past.

"And he owned you in the freak show?"

"Yes, people came and went. Some merely laughed, the nicer ones in general, and others threw things, then the worst paid to be given the privilege of carrying out his daily task of beating me or whipping me, or holding me down. I barely feel a hand patting me on my back nowadays; the nerves are so damaged and dead at the ends..." He was staring intently at the ground and then he spun on his heel, slamming the bathroom door in my face and effectively shutting me out after letting me in on a tiny bit of his life.

"Sherlock, stop walking away! You need to talk about this-"

"I don't need to do anything, except possibly take a colossal amount of cocaine and inject it into my veins before I-" There was the noise of vomiting and I sighed leaning against the door,

"Yes, that'll certainly help. Maybe if you faced the issues that are making you need the drugs-" The door swung open and I stumbled forwards, at the same moment as Sherlock whirled out of the bathroom - dodging around me with almost feline grace that was more like his usual self - and towards the kitchen,

"Thank you for your input but you are a detective, not a psychologist, Lestrade. I take drugs to forget, even for a minute, but with a brain like mine... I can delete things which are not important or relevant to me, which are tiny facts which I deem unnecessary to my life. I cannot remove the past because, as painful as it might be, and trust me it weighed on my conscience for a long time – until I decided to delete my conscience – the memories hold importance. They remind me of the bad I have done and they tell me that I must do good with my life now and that is why I must detox. If I were to talk about the problems and resolve them then I would not be motivated to detox and therefore I would do bad again. Okay?"

"I'm fairly sure there's flaws in your logic there-"

"Of course there is, I can hardly think straight. The whole room is spinning." It was then that he unexpectedly pitched forward and I had to jog forward and shoot my hands out, catching him just enough to cushion his blow against the floor, preventing him from breaking his nose. I rolled him over, expecting him to be out cold but it seemed the hallucinations were determined to continue to plague him because, as soon as he looked up, he was looking at something just beyond my shoulder. I glanced over to check that there was no one hovering over me. Sherlock was definitely staring at empty air but he didn't appear to think of it like that. He had been ghostly pale and sweating profusely ever since I had gotten him back to the flat and deposited him on the sofa but now he looked like an animated corpse.

"William."

Sherlock POV

I couldn't see him, this couldn't be real, my subconscious was too cruel. He had always plagued on my mind, the now eternally young face imprinted there forever, giggling in the moments when I was drifting to sleep, whispering maliciously in my ear about the life he could have lived if it hadn't been cut so tragically short.

"Ten years old," he mocked in his tiny, childish voice, "I'm only ten years old... I'll only ever be ten years old." I felt a sob in my chest and I suppressed it, aware of the alarm on Lestrade's face, bobbing to the side of my line of vision,

"I didn't mean to, William, I didn't mean to do it. I was only young, just like you, I didn't understand... I didn't mean to hurt you and even if I had, I didn't know what would happen."

"But you did, though, didn't you? You knew from the second you realised that the blind man wasn't going to get up. Killing a blind old man and his pregnant family, and a little boy, not to mention the other atrocities Sherlock, what would your policeman think of that? He'd arrest you on the spot."

"No," I moaned, trying to reach up and cover my ears, "you're not real. You were ten years old, you'd hardly know what an atrocity is."

"Oh I know, because that's what you did, Sherlock. Wasn't it? That's all you ever did."

"Sherlock, who was ten years old?" William was laughing, giggling in my face, in stark contrast to Lestrade's deathly serious expression, "Sherlock, please, talk to me."

"Let's go to the mountains, let's go up there. It'll be fun won't it? I had fun in the mountains, I'm sure Ernest was so jealous that he couldn't come. Imagine that, two dead boys!"

"No, I wouldn't have- I didn't mean to kill you, William, it's not my fault." Lestrade wasn't there anymore, I didn't expect him to be, not after the bombshell I had just dropped, after what he'd heard me admit. He had probably reeled back in horror,

"Sherlock, tell me you didn't just say that."

"Let's go to the mountains, let's go play," William was singing, laughing in my face, repeating it over and over and over again, I tried to cover my ears again but I could hear him, I could see the fear in his face as he suffocated, I could hear the crying echoing in the mountains as he begged to be taken home and I just kept telling him no, not until Victor came. And Victor did come in the end, but it was too late to stop me from accidentally holding too tight, shaking too hard, too late to stop that crack and then silence.

"I'm so sorry William," I sobbed, wishing more than anything that the tears would come, that I could truly show him how real my pain and regret was, but he didn't stop. He just kept singing and moving, he was everywhere, right up close, in the corner, in the other rooms, next to me, on my shoulders again or clinging to my hand, all begging for me to come to the mountains, mocking me, and then I struck out at the closest clone, screaming at it to shut up, "I didn't mean it! I didn't mean to kill you, William, it was an accident! Please listen, it was an accident!"

And then two strong, definitely adult, hands were closing around my upper arms, holding on tight and shaking me out of the haze of red and panic,

"SHERLOCK! STOP IT! What the Hell is going on?" I blinked away the fog to see Lestrade, looking pained and terrified of my response, "who's William?"

"He's my father's brother- who I," I choked slightly, "I killed him. I didn't mean to, I needed to speak with my father and- and he wouldn't come, so I kidnapped his little brother. I took him to play in the mountains but h-he was scared of me, of my scars. The scars I used to have. He wouldn't stop crying and pleading to leave and I-I panicked... I didn't mean to hurt him... and then he just wouldn't move anymore." Lestrade's hands let go and I dropped like a lead weight, down onto my knees, head bent in shame and my entire body convulsing,

"Oh dear lord."

"I'm a murderer, I killed him-" And then Lestrade did something I never would have expected, he knelt down in front of me and then placed two arms around me and pulled me to his chest, burying my face in the front of his shirt, and getting running a calloused hand up and down my back,

"It's not your fault, Sherlock, it's really not."

"But it is and he wasn't the only one- I wasn't like other people when I was young. I was deformed an-and I didn't have a normal upbringing. I didn't understand things like death or-or rape," his eyes widened, "so I killed and I-I... I hurt people, I did terrible things which I live with now. And now-"

Lestrade POV

"Now what?" I asked, dreading the answer because I could see his eyes drifting again and landing on something behind me, just as they had with William. But there wasn't just that one sole focus, he seemed to be looking at many people,

"And now they're all there. Elizabeth and William, the blind man and his family... the people I killed and hurt." I turned, wishing that I could see what he was seeing and help him, to protect him, but all I saw was an empty corner, "oh God, Elizabeth, I'm so sorry."

"You snapped my neck Sherlock," I whipped my head around, it was Sherlock speaking but... it wasn't. His voice had taken on a soft, femininity that I didn't realise it could produce but utterly convinced me at the same time, and I shivered as I realised exactly what that voice had said.

"You were- the way you looked at me, the way you are looking at me now."

"You mean with fear and disgust?"

"You're right to look at me like that-"

"Of course I'm right, after what you did to me. I was Victor's wife, you raped your own father's wife."

"Oh my God," Sherlock ignored me, for which I'm glad, because I needed to give him time to explain it at least, before I panicked entirely and made myself arrest him,

"I didn't know what rape was. I barely even knew what sex was, I was young and foolish, I knew so little of the world and of the pains that others could feel. I wanted to take Victor's wife from him, to make her love me and to kiss her- like he kissed my bride. I didn't go there to kill you, I knew about sex about... making love, I was told it was called. I thought if I made you share that with me then it would make you love me, that you would come with me, but you didn't."

"Of course I didn't, you didn't even give me a chance."

"Like you would have."

"No, because you destroyed me Sherlock. I would have helped you Sherlock, I would have cared for you." I reached out to support him, as he clutched a broken heart, and I felt as if maybe it wasn't all a lost cause, maybe it wasn't as abhorrent as a normal rape case would seem... that sounds wrong. Maybe Sherlock wasn't your typical rapist, there was more to it than there seemed, and I just needed to understand. In fact, it was just... pitiable, because it wasn't Sherlock's fault, he hadn't understood,

"I didn't want to. I went there to steal you, not to kill you... but after I saw how kind and sweet you were and when I realise what I had done, what a fatal miscalculation I had made... how could I let you carry that mistake with you for the rest of your life? To suffer scars which might never have faded because of my foolishness."

"You killed me to save me. But don't fool yourself, you didn't just kill me for my sake."

"No, I've know that for a long time."

"You killed me because if I lived then so did the consequences, you would know that there was someone out there suffering because of you. And that would have hurt you-"

"And Victor. It hurt Victor right until the end."

"That's why he followed you, to find the end to his suffering over time because you did not grant him it as quickly as you did me."

"He didn't deserve it. He didn't put me out of my misery either."

"No, you're right there. He could have shot you, stopped it all there. You wouldn't have suffered, he would have lived, his father's broken heart might have kept just a little piece intact and Ernest would not have had to take on the estate. Perhaps he should have shot you."

"I wish he had."

"Sherlock, don't say that." He looked up in shock, having entirely forgotten that I was there, that he was in fact supporting himself on me,

"Lestrade, I-"

"Don't think for a second I agree with anything you have done, some of it is quite frankly appalling but- I suppose ignorance is enough of an excuse that I can at least think you didn't mean it, that there is still a good person in there. You'll make up for those misdeeds one day Sherlock and you'll heal, you deserve to after all I've seen today, but you wouldn't have that opportunity if you had had your life ended all those years ago, by Victor. So no, I think it's right that he didn't kill you."

"He was my father."

"What?"

"Victor was my father, that's why he couldn't kill me."

"I sort of guessed that-"

"But Elizabeth wasn't my mother."

"No, I didn't think so. I certainly hoped not, after what you did to her. But Sherlock, once you're out of the detox I expect a full explanation." I pulled one of his arms up over my shoulders as his knees sagged slightly, exhaustion and pain taking over, "but for now, I'm getting you to bed. Okay?" He didn't respond, he was already asleep as I dragged him towards his bed, or rather my bed. He started to snore the second his head hit the pillow and I smiled slightly, sitting beside him and listening to the soft snuffling sound. The deep purple bags beneath his eyes hardly suggested that he hadn't been sleeping well recently, I briefly wondered how long it had been since he had last slept through the night.

Not for the first time, I found myself wondering if this was how it felt to have a child, to be their provider and carer, to put them to bed and look after them when they were ill... it was nice. As vulnerable as he was and as terrifying as it was to see him in such a state, it was nice to have someone rely on me, to need me. I reached out a hand, as he stirred in a nightmare, and groaned, and gently ran a hand through his sweat drenched curls, humming slightly to calm myself as much as him, because it hurt to see him so pained and so upset. I wished I could take that pain away from him, to make it all better.

He let out another whine and I knew what was going to happen, as his eyelids fluttered to reveal those piercing eyes again, which flicked up to look at me,

"Father?" I shook my head and he sighed, slightly leaning into my touch, "yes, you told me never to call you that. Victor, I suppose."

"I'm not Victor-" He wasn't listening, his eyes had shut, and his entire face seemed to have scrunched up from the pain,

"Why did you do this to me, Victor? Why did you have to play at being God and leave me when you succeeded?"

"I don't know what you mean, Sherlock-" His eyes shot open to show the raw pain and anger, the final snap and the confession that perhaps he had never had the chance to make in Victor's lifetime,

"You made me! You built me from those body parts and brought me to life, what did you think would happen? You brought me to life and you succeeded, why did you leave? You had a responsibility to care for me, just as a father did, and you were a coward. You made me and you abandoned me to suffer, and now I can hardly breathe from the pain and you come back, I wish I had died on that day I first woke. I wish you had had the guts to shoot me when I hurt Elizabeth or to snap my neck as I did hers, the second you realised I had awoken. Because that's what you wanted to do when I first woke, isn't it? You wanted to get red of me, but you were too much a coward, so you ran. Even when you were dying you could barely bring yourself to look at me, because all you could see was the scars, the hideous scars that made me into your creature, the one you built."

"I built?"

"YES! YOU BUILT! You made me and you left me, and I have always hated you for it but the sad thing is, I loved you. I loved you, I loved my friends, I loved my Elizabeth and Mycroft and all of them hurt me in the end, or left me."

"Mycroft- Mycroft was the one in the hospital, wasn't he? The one you ran away from-"

"Of course I ran away from him. He found out the truth about me and he ran first, it doesn't matter that he came back because he left me first, he was too scared and too stupid to listen, he left me after everything I had done for him. All I had ever done was to look after him but the second he knew my past he left and I cannot forgive him for the pain he caused me, the disgust he felt and the means that I have gone to self-medicate that pain, I cannot forgive him, just as I cannot forgive you for running away Victor."

"I can't believe that Mycroft left, he didn't listen?"

"Of course he didn't. Who would? Who would stay and care for the monster, the creature, I mean look at me-" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture, flinging it down on his breath as I sucked in a shocked breath, "who could stay with that? Care for it? Everybody leaves eventually, I'm always alone, invulnerable in a world that wants to beat me, that can torture me to insanity but never let my suffering end with the sweet eternal release it grants my tormentors. Mycroft hated me and now he wants to come back, after he ran from me. I raised him and as soon as he had everything he needed, he left me, for twenty years he refused all contact. Why do you think I take the drugs? Because I am alone and the only family I have left despised me, forgot me for a better and more biological family, and didn't even come to his – no, our – mother's funeral."

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," I didn't even realise I was crying until I heard my voice crack, and reached down to hold his hand, "I'm so sorry for everything you've been through."

"You should be, Victor, you made me and you didn't even have the decency to raise me, to help me. You didn't even give me a name, I lived for a hundred years under the name of creature or beast, I had to name myself. I wasn't even human in your eyes, not even worth a name."

"I'm so sorry, but I'm here now, Sherlock. I may not be Victor but I'll be that father, that guide, even if you don't remember this when you wake up, after the hallucinations end, I'm not going to leave you. I'll stay here and I'll look after you," I pulled him into a hug, encasing his frail sweating body as best I could, and surprised when he offered no resistance, "I'll make it better, I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

It was when I pulled back that I realised why he had offered no resistance, he was asleep again, drooling slightly over my back, and I just chuckled and gently laid him back down, pushing an errant curl back off of his face and sighing.

I gently eased myself off the bed, careful not to rock it and wake him, before padding barefoot back through my flat and towards the kitchen. I was going to need a bucket load of coffee if I was going to stay awake and keep watch over Sherlock. I was just taking a sip, burning my lips but grateful for the burst of caffeine, when there was a sharp knock at the door. The knocking continued and I rushed to answer it before the noise woke Sherlock, unlocking the door to find a certain relative of my guest stood on the doormat,

"Mycroft."

"Ah, Detective Inspector, I believe you have my brother in there-" His sentence was punctuated by the crack of my fist colliding with his long, hooked nose, as I snarled,

"You don't get to bloody call him that." He looked up at me from the floor, pinching his bleeding nose and looking thoroughly unsurprised, clearly knowing I was going to do that and perhaps... wanting me to do it, I could see the regret lurking in the back of his eyes,

"I see he's informed you of my past with him."

"Yes, he bloody well has. He told me how he raised you, cared for you like a brother, and then you ran away from him when you learnt of his past crimes, refused contact to gallivant off with a better family and then didn't even have the common decency to come to your own mother's funeral."

There was sorrow on his face, as he eased himself back to his feet, brushing down his bespoke clothing,

"I have regretted that for a very long time but I had to make that choice just a few months after my separation from Sherlock, and I knew he would be there. I saw her in the hospital shortly before I died, when there was no-one around to let Sherlock know of my visit, but I made the decision to keep away at the funeral, it was that or face Sherlock."

"Perhaps you should have, instead of running away."

"With hindsight I agree with you, I should have stayed for Sherlock and repaid him for every kindness he had shown me by listening to his side of the story. But I was young and foolish, and my father supported my decision to stay as far away from a murderer... Sherlock has told you all of his crimes hasn't he?" I felt a flare of anger in the pit of my stomach,

"Of course he has, whether he meant to or not, but I also know why he did it-"

"Yes, and so do. When I joined the government I began to research, for a long time I found nothing but then, as I progressed up the ranks, I began to access more information, to get hold of details which might not have been banned from public access but were certainly difficult to unearth. I had people find information for me... and I began to understand the truth about Sherlock and realise that after all he had done, he was still the same man I knew in my childhood."

"Oh, and who is that?"

"My brother, my good friend, my true family."

"And what exactly brought about this change in attitude, why did you start looking?"

"For the same reason anyone would, to find out all of the crimes of the person who had kept them hidden from you for seventeen years, to find out how much danger I had been in whilst in his care."

"That might have been why you started but a normal person would have gone looking to assure themselves that they were right to run away, you would have had that confirmation early in the process. You kept looking, you realised how much Sherlock meant to you and you wanted to prove yourself wrong, which would suggest sentiment. What brought that about?" He looked at me, an unreadable expression on his face, an expression I realised he had probably picked up whilst growing up in Sherlock's care, and then he stated with an almost shocked tone,

"You're very perceptive, detective, but I am not a sentimental person by nature. Well I'm sure you can imagine since I grew up with Sherlock, he was caring but you can probably imagine how undemonstrative he was. He taught me that caring was not an advantage, and his whole life is testament to that. That one act of sentiment I showed for another person, and my lost childhood, was caused by the death of my father; he was the only tie I really had to the family. After his death, my stepmother and half-siblings wanted very little to do with me, I returned to my mother's family and began to look for Sherlock's connection. I felt alone, I needed family and he was the only real, caring family I had left and I hated him, so I needed to prove myself wrong. And eventually I did."

"And then you went looking for him."

"Yes, and as you can imagine... it's very difficult to track down a drug addict with no known address in London, I don't know how but he figured out I was looking for him and withdrew every penny he had left from his bank account and disappeared. I sent the police to all of the places mentioned in the past I had drawn up but the hospital was the only place I tracked him down at for a very long time."

"You can't just waltz back into his life, you know. Sherlock won't let you."

"I wouldn't imagine him to. He's a good man, a kind man, I realise now but he's also one who has been abandoned and hated for a very long time, he doesn't trust or love very easily, as much as he wants to. I betrayed that and I doubt he will ever let me in again, but I would ask that you at least give him my number and my address, so that if he can find it in him, maybe he'll try."

"Fine." He nodded and, brushing himself off one last time and wiping the small sliver of blood running down from his nose, he went to walk away, "Mycroft?" He turned, clearly already knowing what I was about to say, but I decided to say it anyway, no matter how weird it made me feel to voice it, "I'll keep you informed as much as he will allow me, okay?" He smiled, and nodded,

"Thank you Detective Inspector-"

"Please, call me Greg." He smiled again, and it was a little bit warmer this time,

"Of course, Gregory," I chuckled, of course the government official couldn't be informal, "would you care to meet me for coffee in two weeks time?" I could almost sense that it was an order rather than a request but I nodded regardless, "excellent, I'll be in contact with the details."

"And how exactly do you know my contact details?"

"Oh I know many things. Have a good day, and tell Sherlock that I hope to see him." And with that, he walked away, leaving me smiling after him. I didn't even know why.

**AN. I hope you guys enjoyed that chapter, more to come very soon I imagine.**


	25. Molly Hooper

**2006 - Molly Hooper**

**Sherlock POV**

* * *

I cannot say that the detective business got onto its feet at a speed that I would have enjoyed, the website didn't get very many views and my reputation was non-existent so it was very slow at the beginning. To be fair, I had spent the past thirteen years avoiding having any sort of reputation, since I had been thrown out of the university and gone on the run from the start of Mycroft's poking around. But whatever the reason, I was pretty much non-existent when I found my calling and had no reputation to my name, and my poor cases reflected that. Mostly it was ghastly, overweight middle-aged woman on my doorstep - or rather Lestrade's door since I was still living with him - trying to find out if their husbands were having affairs. Nine out of ten occurrences gave the same result; yes the husbands were definitely having an affair with their more attractive/younger/less-irritating-in-general secretary/colleague/personal-assistant/friend/sister-in-law deleted as applicable. Sometimes it was more than one selection.

There was the occasional interesting case but mostly? It was tedious. My boredom was clearly bothering Lestrade as well. Apart from the cold cases that he brought me, and the mildly interesting cases that came every couple of months, I was practically bouncing off the walls. He couldn't stand the experiments in his kitchen, he confiscated his gun when he found me shooting the wall and he practically hit the roof when I used up the last of the milk. And since I didn't have a 'real job' as he called it, I wasn't contributing to rent so that only angered him more. In fact, he had told me categorically that I was to find my own place by the end of the month.

The bed-sit I eventually ended up in was only down the road from where Lestrade lived, since it had to be close enough that he was able to regularly check in on me and make sure I hadn't fallen back into old habits. That and so he could keep Mycroft updated on my progress, since I still refused to even meet with my so called brother. Today was one of those days when he was checking up on me, carefully excusing himself to go to the bathroom and trying, at least in his mind, to subtly check around my room for signs that I was using again. It almost made me laugh - his attempts to not arouse my suspicions were pitiful, I was just too observant of what he was up to – and I also knew that if I had indeed fallen back into cocaine use it would hardly have been difficult for me to keep it hidden from him. When he returned, wiping his hands on his jeans as I had neglected to buy any of the essentials for the room, I just kept forgetting, he asked casually, knowing the answer,

"So, have you been to see Mycroft yet?"

"Not since you saw him yesterday, no."

"How did you know I saw him yesterday?"

"The lingering cologne." He cleared his throat uncomfortably,

"That was for my date."

"Oh is that what you're calling your meetings with Mycroft, now?" He just gave me a look of "you're dancing on a very tender spot there Sherlock, don't push it?" And I sighed,

"I'm sure _she _was very pleased you went to the trouble."

"Yes, well, I think Mycroft would be just as pleased, in fact considerably more so, if you would go to the trouble of going to see him."

"I'm sure he would be."

"Will you ever go see him?"

"Perhaps."

"Am I going to get more than a one word answer on the subject?"

"It's unlikely."

"Fine, whatever you decide is fine, I'm not here to pester."

"Oh really? Because I was in the middle of some work when you came in and this whole inconvenient interlude seems like pestering."

"Fine, I'll be quick then. How's the detective work at the moment? Picking up yet?" I sighed, letting my frustrations be known,

"Not even slightly, they are just as slow and uninteresting at present as they were when I started."

"Well, I think I might have the answer for that, I have a case for you-"

"Hopefully it's more interesting than the last one you brought to my attention; the brother killing him over money squabbles? It was hardly a mystery, it's quite textbook in fact, and I would have thought that even Anderson could solve that one but apparently not."

"Yes, yes, you're amazing and we're all idiots, can you just help me? It'll be less boring than sitting round here, won't it?"

"Marginally, but fine. Where?"

"The body's been given to a forensic pathologist-"

"What have I told you Lestrade? If you want my assistance, then you need to call me to the crime scene or you're interfering with my process and slowing it down considerably… admittedly that's still about ten times faster than leaving it up to your team but-"

"Okay, now I remember why I never asked you to work for the police in an official capacity-"

"I wouldn't have come anyway, it makes for a much too high concentration of idiocy and far too regular hours, I have worked regular hours for years before now and it did not suit me."

"Right fine, but just so you know… the morgue where the body is being held? That is in fact the crime scene. I was on my way there when I thought I'd come in and get you, since you're so bored at the moment and I've had your neighbours ringing me to complain at all hours. Are you coming?"

"It almost sounds interesting, I'll be there. Which morgue?"

"St Bart's Pathology department, I'll get my car."

"You're far too happy with having a police car at last. I'll meet you there; I prefer to travel by cab-"

"How do you have the money for a cab but not your rent?"

"I have one or the other, my landlord is lenient on rent since I saved his daughter from a sociopath who intended to kill her, which is ironic because he then gave his reward to a different sociopath-" He sighed, looking more and more exasperated by the second,

"How many times do I have to tell you Sherlock? You're not a sociopath-"

"I display every characteristic. Now finish your tea, I'm going to find a cab and I'll meet you there." I had pulled on my coat and left before he could object again or offer to ride with me; I needed quiet to think about the case – the details of which I had snagged from the folder in his briefcase when he was in the bathroom - since I had decided long before he had brought it up that I would be there.

The cab ride over was extremely quiet, the cabbie attempted to make conversation but quickly gave up when he realised I had my face buried in my mobile phone, an expensive gift sent to me by Mycroft along with my new clothes and even the deed to my old home. I accepted the gifts... but that didn't mean I had forgiven him, I was merely keeping them should the need ever arise to sell the designers labels for enough money to live on.

Lestrade hadn't arrived by the time I got there - not that I had expected him to - so I was left with the usual brainless group, consisting of Anderson and Donovan and a few other nameless background officers. I dodged around them and onto the crime scene, with very little difficulty, and headed down the corridor and into the morgue. I'd been here a few times, to use the equipment which Mycroft had managed to get me access to for my work; I had always felt an unfathomable pull to the place. It was as if there was something deep down which knew there was something there, waiting, but I'd just missed it or I had just gotten there a little bit early. Something – or rather someone, I later realised - was coming, I just had to be patient.

There were two employees in the lab at the moment, who I had not met in my other visits because I tried to avoid the staff as much as possible, too many questions. Now that I was actually seeing them I found the occupants of my laboratory to be a small mousy haired woman and a slightly taller - and considerably wider in diameter due to recent rapid weight gain judging by the fact his shirt was three sizes too small - man with glasses. If the shaking was anything to go by, I think it was safe to say that the woman had been the one to find the body,

"Oh hello, are you one of the policemen?" Her voice was about the same volume as a mouse with laryngitis, and she seemed to have jumped a foot in the air when she'd seen me appear over the interviewing officer's shoulder,

"No, I'm a consulting detective. I see the murder was of one of the other second year junior doctors-"

"How did you know I'm a junior doctor?"

"You're too young to be a fully trained consultant, you were either a junior doctor or a first year specialist but judging by the application and the CV on your desk, it's the former."

"Yes, yes it is," she squeaked, "but call me Molly," she smiled in a way that suggested that in better circumstances she might have asked to get coffee with me, since she was obviously attracted to me. Not that she had the confidence to pull off an attempt to get my attention, she was pretty but it was a mild and ordinary way that didn't quite get my attention, and most likely never world. I did however make an effort to smile, knowing she was my best road of interrogation for the moment and flattery would work better on her than intimidation, which could easily give her a heart attack and end that line of enquiry,

"Of course, my name is Sherlock Holmes; I gather that the victim was also a medical student."

"Um, yes, he was?" I frowned, she didn't seem very confident,

"And I also gather that you were having a sexual relationship with him, if the matching lipstick on his neck and your lips is anything to go by." I hadn't thought it possible but the shade of red filling her mortified face intensified,

"I- I don't- I'm not," she stuttered, "I don't have to answer that." Even that statement didn't have the force or authority that she clearly intended it to,

"You do if you want to stay out of prison." Her jaw fell open and the stuttering increased to the point where she just sounded like an engine on the verge of stalling, "Miss Hooper, the police clearly suspect you of murdering your competition for the position here. Your colleague also applied for the single position of forensic pathology training here… and judging by the equal timetable of hours allotted to you both, you're equally talented and likely to get the position. Disregarding the fact you are clearly incapable of killing someone; the police think the competition may have bubbled over with fatal consequences." She looked up at me, the hope widening already huge teary eyes to a frankly sickly sweet diameter that would rival the eyes of a baby animal straight out a Disney film,

"And you think otherwise?"

"I'm leaning towards it, although I have many different theories at the moment," I smiled slightly, turning up the charm and persuasion, usually intimidation or cunning would work on a case like this but I got the feeling she might faint if I took a more aggressive route, "so, perhaps you could shed some light on the situation? What happened this evening?"

"I um... I went to dinner with Oliver... about, um seven I think? We… uh, we went back to the flat for, well-" The pink flush was starting to look uncomfortable, she looked as if she would spontaneously combust at any second, "you can guess. Then he, well he went home, or so I thought. Mike phoned to tell me that we- we'd had an arrival and could I possibly deal with it, since he was having dinner with his wife and Oliver wasn't reporting back, since agreeing to sort out the paperwork. I got here and well-" The tears were building now and the police officer who had been interrogating her before my entrance offered her a tissue, which she took with a watery smile, "thank you. I found him lying on the floor, with a blow to the head, I tried to revive him but, well."

"I see. Well, I'm confident that you're not the killer." It was the officer's turn to speak now,

"What? Why? There's no CCTV and she was the only one here, so there were no other witnesses, plus there's motive! We need to at least take her in for further questioning-"

"She is clearly incapable of killing him. For one thing, she hardly fits the profile of a cold-blooded killer and for another thing the blow to the head - which I saw pictures of when Lestrade got round to sending them to me - were moving in a downwards direction. He was bludgeoned with a blunt object by someone considerably taller than him. The killer was at least my height and you can see that Miss Hooper is considerably shorter than me, I would have thought that you would have been trained to spot this sort of thing." The officer was going a shade to match the suspect in question, although it was mostly anger rather than being attracted to me… although I do say mostly, and not entirely, she clearly had a bit of a lusty soft spot.

"He could have been sat down-"

"The position he fell in leaves me with no doubt he was standing at the time of death. There was another killer, not Miss Hooper, who stood in the range of six foot two and six foot seven I would estimate, the forensics team should be able to pinpoint it more accurately. The body brought for him to look at… it's that one over there, isn't it Miss Hooper?" I didn't wait for an answer, although I saw Molly nodding in agreement, as I crossed to examine it, "killed by a similar weapon and an almost identical blow to the back of the head. Clearly the murderer left some form of evidence on the body, panicked, and rushed here to get rid of it. When he was discovered, he killed the other man and ran. Check CCTV of anyone in the hospital fitting the description, with blood on their clothes, and you'll have the actual murderer."

I nodded at Molly, who was looking grateful… and slightly too adoring, and pushed open the door to head down the corridor towards Lestrade, only to be stopped by her light footsteps and voice calling timidly,

"Mr Holmes?"

"Call me Sherlock," I mimicked her earlier stament, making her blush again but smile slightly,

"Okay, Sherlock. I just wanted to say thank you for saving me, from the murder charges."

"It's my job and the idiots would have seen eventually that you weren't the murderer."

"Yes, I suppose so," she stuttered, "but not without news getting round and me getting into a lot of trouble. Mike told me I have the job now, and I doubt the hospital would have let me stay to train as a forensic pathologist if there was even a tiny question that I could be a murderer myself."

"Well, good luck to you-" I went to leave again but I was stopped once more, by a very light hand on my arm,

"Just, if there's anything I can do to repay you-" I froze, an idea coming to me, although clearly not what she was hoping for me to say,

"There is something actually." Her face lit up, "I've been meaning to get more access to this lab actually, for my work and my experiments, if you would be willing. At the moment I get access to the other lab rooms but I would much prefer to use yours, to perhaps utilise some of the donated body parts-" She deflated slightly, clearly disappointed, but - not one to disappoint others - she smiled meekly,

"Yes, of course. Come by anytime."

She smiled in one last ditch attempt to convince me that I should be attracted to her but, whilst she was a nice enough girl, I just nodded and went on my way, crossing paths with Lestrade on the way and informing him of the recent developments on my way to view CCTV.

From that day on, I could always count on Molly being putty in my hands. She might have only been training at the time but she was remarkably good at helping me to get my way, even if Stamford had authority over her. Not that he ever chose to exercise it, he was too fond of the sweet young girl – as he called her when he tried to convince me not to take advantage – and usually he didn't have a problem with letting me have free reign over the lab. Possibly because he saw it as doing good, all of the bodies were donated for science and my science was saving lives, but more likely because he was just too lazy to do the work to get me to stop.

Molly did whatever I needed her to; if I needed a body, the paperwork was provided and one would be laid out as soon as someone died - since I never quite convinced her to do a Burke and Hare for me, and I had to wait for them to actually die. Usually, she would bring me coffee as I worked and bumble on in the background about her normal life, it was quite nice to have the white noise in the background, soothing even... it helped me to concentrate.

And of course Bart's was where my life truly began, when my association with Mike and Molly suddenly became worthwhile. But more on that later.


	26. 2008 - You can stand under my umbrella

**2008 - You can stand under my umbrella**

**Sherlock POV**

I had been in London for approximately twenty years by now, and in all of that time I had not seen Mycroft. Not once. Admittedly, for the most part it was because I had been on the run from him but I had settled in 2005, moving into Lestrade's flat three years prior to now. I knew through various connections that Mycroft was an exceedingly powerful and influential man, with my newly fixed address in my bedsit he could easily have come to find me by now and made an effort to be in contact. Which led me to one conclusion.

He'd given up.

After all of the gifts he had sent had been taken but elicited no response, he must have decided that he wasn't going to get me back in his life and come to the conclusion that it wasn't worth the effort. He didn't care about me anymore, he was too important to spend time with me now. Or maybe that's what he wanted me to think, so he could provoke me into reacting and coming to visit him, to manipulate me into doing the legwork and making it seem like I was the one who wanted us to kiss and make up. If that was the plan then it worked because he had infuriated me. How dare he force me to run, to hide for so long and then just forget me? After everything I had done for him, he could damn well make the effort to return the favour, even if I didn't want him to!

That train of thought is how I found myself stood in his office, all alone in the dark room – thinking that they really needed to improve their security if they didn't want their top government member to be assassinated – and feeling more and more uncomfortable by the second. Did I actually want to be here? Did I really want to see Mycroft when the last time I had seen him he had been running away from me? What if it wasn't all a tactic to get me to come to him and he just genuinely didn't want to see me… and what if he sent me away again? I didn't think I could go through that level of rejection again. Not without doing something foolish.

My entire body was thrumming with energy and I was soaked to the bone, and the soft patter of rain against the windows somewhere in the building – there were no windows in Mycroft's office in case a sniper gained access to them I imagine – was the only sound. I was shivering slightly although I didn't know if it was the cold or something else. I shook the water out of the jacket gifted to me by Lestrade, which always reminded me of the jacket I had taken from Victor's house long ago, the long coat my father had worn in the mountains on the day of William's death. When I wore my new jacket, I felt like I was my father on the fateful day that he promised me my bride. It had been a day when I had been so excited and so awed by his genius. But when I wore those clothes, I didn't feel like his creature... I felt like I was him and he was me and I had a genius to rival his. I'd even exceeded him since I had had more time to research, greater education and greater motivation to learn - so as to remove my hideous appearance. But ultimately, for whatever reason, when I wore that jacket I wasn't the beast… I was the genius and it made me feel stronger, untouchable even.

It was whilst wearing that uniform, swooping through the city with the tails of the coat flying out behind me, in the days after I had run away from Lestrade and Mycroft in the hospital, that I found my current vocation. The petty cases – lost or stolen objects, cheats etc. - I had solved in my university days gave birth to newer crimes. At first it was just helping people to track down missing people or private investigator work trailing cheating spouses, relapsing gamblers or secret alcoholic and reporting back to spouses and loved ones. After solving the murderer for Lestrade I had come to the realisation of my true talent and when I discharged myself from a hospital I had gone to hide in a café, to sit and avoid leaving a trail for Mycroft to follow. It had all started then. A bawling woman had burst into the coffee shop, pleading with people to help her find her baby, who had been in the pram outside with her and just disappeared when she turned away. I tracked down the lost baby in a matter of hours and slowly, through word of mouth, I began to receive more regular phone calls, doing small cases which gained difficulty and importance exponentially.

But that was all irrelevant now, that coat wasn't going to protect me from Mycroft's rejection or wrath, it was hardly shielding me against the cold left stinging my skin from the rain on my walk here. Not even the umbrella hanging wetly at my side could do that.

No, now I felt naked and vulnerable, laid bare for Mycroft's decision and for my fate. I briefly thought of disappearing, leaving no trace that I had been there except for the pool of water soaking into the carpet.

The decision to run away was taken out of my hands by the sound of the door opening, followed by a sharp intake of breath. There was the sound of a sodden coat falling to the ground and then a voice, rasping and filled with a shocking amount of emotion considering who I knew it belonged to, though it was deeper and more grown up now,

"Sherlock?"

I turned to face him and was instantly overcome by the differences in almost every single feature. He had been able to keep track of pictures of me over the years and I hadn't changed, I had not had that luxury. But now I was looking into the face of a stranger, a man rather than the cute teenaged brother with fluffy hair that stuck up at the front, over his podgy face. He looked tired, blue eyes were rimmed with lines and shadows from the stress of his job, his hairline slightly receding and the once fluffy hair tamed with the strictness of a tight, overbearing man. He didn't smile at my return, he just stared at me. The transition from my Mycroft to the big, bag, stern British Government was too drastic, I felt robbed of the boy I had known. In all of the times I had ever thought about him in the years of our separation, I had never imagined him as a grown up… only as the boy I had known, my little brother. But he wasn't that anymore, he was my big brother now. I still thought of him as that sulky young boy who slunk around my house and spent hours poring over his books or listening to me playing the violin, pretending that it was interrupting his thought processes but secretly enjoying the melodies I played, and often wrote, for him.

But that boy had been stolen by me, or more accurately he had abandoned me. He had run far away and he was never coming back, he had been replaced be a whole new and I realised now that I would never get those lost years back. It was in that moment I realised why I was there in the Diogenes club, drenched to the bone and putting my umbrella down on the desk to face the fully grown man in his late thirties, wearing a three piece suit. I was there to make sure I didn't lose any more time, to make amends. To make sure the next time I saw him wasn't on his death bed… or worse.

His hands were fiddling with the front of that expensive waist coat, as if he couldn't quite figure out what to do with them – and if I wasn't mistaken that was either a clear sign that he wasn't quite comfortable in his position as the political prodigy everyone turned to, even at such a young age, or he was considering hugging me. I really hoped it wasn't the latter as I had no intention of returning a hug, especially not when he said,

"Sherlock, how nice to see you." I felt my eyes narrow dangerously, and he winced as my voice responded, the words freezing with my frosty tones,

"How nice to see you. How nice to see you? Is that really all you can muster after twenty years of absence, Mycroft, and after the things you said? After the way you looked at me and then walked out, as if I meant nothing to you?"

"You know that I've been searching for you for almost eight years-"

"You wouldn't have needed to look if you hadn't walked out in the first place, would you Mycroft?" He heaved a sigh, crossing to sit at his desk,

"No, I wouldn't-"

"Or if you had responded when I desperately tried to get in contact with you, to explain it to you properly!"

"No, I'll admit-"

"But you were too idiotic to just sit down and listen to me, even after everything I had done for you-" He frowned and retorted,

"You were hardly blameless in the way we left things! You kept secrets from me all through my childhood, you kept me with you out of your own selfishness and loneliness when I could have been with my birth father, and you did terrible things to the people who you claimed to care about-"

"I know I did, but you never even waited to hear my side of the story-" He scoffed, shaking his head as he crossed his desk,

"Of course I didn't, I was terrified! That's what happens when a seventeen year old finds out that his only guardian is a murderer and rapist!" I ignored those painfully truthful titles and picked up on another indignity,

"Only guardian? Did Mummy mean so little to you?"

"Mummy meant the world to me and it deeply saddened me that I couldn't be at her funeral because of our disagreement, but at least I saw her before she died. I visited-"

"How could I visit her? After the way I walked away from my life, away from her, to try and forget you? It hurt me more than anything to not see you, and seeing her just made it all too painful, and I couldn't bear to see what had become of a woman I held so dear-"

"Really? Because from what I remember you spent most of my childhood bickering with her, constantly angry or getting in trouble-"

"Because she was my mother! Children fight with their mothers, that doesn't mean that they don't love each other-"

"If I remember correctly, you also fought with Victor and you killed him too." I felt the anger burst beneath my skin, pounding to my veins as I almost pounced on him,

"I led him away into the ice because I wanted him to talk to me, to be part of my life, because I loved him, but he never loved me back! I was desperate and that killed him in the end, but that was his fault. He deprived me all of his life, left me desperate for his attention, and that was what led to his demise! You understand nothing about it, because you didn't listen, so how dare you bring that up?"

There was a knock at the door and we pulled apart, fuming, as his assistant peered around the door, barely looking up from her blackberry,

"I heard raised voices, sir." She glanced at me, looking slightly surprised by my presence in the room then commented, "please try not to assassinate him, I've just taken out a mortgage and I need my job." She went to duck her head back round but I called after her,

"Hold the door; I can see it was a mistake to come here. I'll leave you to your life, Mycroft-"

"So that's why you came here? So you could be the one to walk away from me this time?" I paused, a foot away from the door and turned,

"No, I came here because I lost twenty years of your life and, despite everything that's happened between us, I still want to be a part of your life… as miniscule as I want that part to be. I don't want to lose any more time; I don't want the next time we meet to be when you're in a retirement home or lying in a hospital, knowing that I could have had more time."

"I see."

"But I can see you don't want to spend any of that time with me, since you've stopped trying to chase me, so I'll be on my way-" He jumped up, throwing a hand out as if an invisible tether would pull me back,

"Sherlock, wait. I didn't stop looking because I don't care anymore, I stopped looking because I knew my following you meant you would have to keep moving on. When you moved into Greg's flat… you finally had a stable life, you got off the drugs, and you had a job. I didn't want to uproot you by trying to get in contact again. So I left you to live that life because it was better that way, but I always hoped that... and I hoped this would happen and you would come to find me when you were ready."

"Yes, well, here I am."

"This isn't going to be easy, I can tell."

"No, the long term separation and resentments have hardly made our already difficult relationship any easier."

He frowned, and then as if the levels of discomfort had reached an unbearable level, he asked,

"So I see you have a new career, as a detective, did working in the laboratory get boring in the end?"

"Yes, well... I don't think you ever really knew what I did in the labs, did you?"

"No, I was always curious and you were always evasive."

"I replicated and repaired Victor's studies, I never built my own creations but I improved on his process and I worked to improve myself in the process. At this point, I am perfectly capable of creating another person like me."

"Why don't you then? Surely that would be less lonely-"

"Do you think it would be anything close to a good idea? Another one like me, suffering and behaving as I did at the start?"

"Yes, I see your point."

"So research got boring in the end, once you know how to create life… then things like protein and DNA become remarkably simplistic; science really holds no thrills for me now. And then I befriended a police officer over the space of a few days, I believe you've met," I smiled slightly at his obvious discomfort over the topic, as he was clearly remembering our talk about his sexuality, even if they hadn't realised their feelings for each other, "and I realised that I enjoyed crime. So the career seemed to fit me well."

"Yes, it certainly does seem to suit you."

"I suppose I could say the same about you, the government official. I always knew this was where you would end up, I never quite expected you to use all of those powers as a means to keep tabs on me however." He opened his mouth to protest but I just scoffed, "I know you've been spying on me, even if you haven't been chasing me. I've seen the men following me, Mycroft and I want you to know that I don't like being watched, I don't like people invading my privacy. I have gone nearly two centuries avoiding attention, hiding from people, I have no intention to be under scrutiny. Do you know what it's like for others to have a blatant disregard for your personal space, your right to a private life?" I zeroed in on him, only a few centimetres and whispering, so close that I knew he could feel the whisper before he could hear it, "this is how close men got to me once upon a time, staring at me from the other sides of the bars. I was just an attraction to them so that for two years I had no comprehension of the word privacy because people watched me every day; every movement, every breath, every second was watched by someone else. I couldn't even go to the toilet without people watching me and laughing at the animal in the cage, forced to sit in its own waste. Don't try to be like those people, Mycroft, I won't play nicely if that's the case-"

"Sherlock… I didn't think about it in that way."

"No of course you didn't. I'm not a priority to you anymore, you watch from afar because this is your priority, this office and this work. Don't watch me, Mycroft, or I promise you that there will be nothing to watch because I will disappear again. But next time… you will never hear from me again-" I went to leave, crossing to the door and placing a gloved hand on the doorknob,

"Sherlock, you know I will be able to find you. There will be records, documents and tracks following you everywhere you go-"

"But that's the funny thing about people who weren't born, people who don't exist and who spend their entire life in the shadows, they're notoriously hard to find." His expression of smugness dropped as he realised the truth in my words, as I almost dared him to challenge me to disappear, but he instantly backed down,

"Fine, I'll leave you alone, I won't watch you anymore and I'll visit you personally, regularly too-"

"We'll see about that, it really depends on whether I wish to see you. Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Wait Sherlock, you forgot your umbrella!" He held up the black umbrella, hands gently closing around the curved wooden handle. Suddenly, the nervous movement that I'd observed seemed to be solved, he had something to do with his hands and he truly looked the part, the English gentleman and politician, with the umbrella and the three piece suits, it fit. A minute change had made all the difference,

"Keep it."

"You'll get soaked."

"I'll find a new one, they sell them down in the corner shop for less than a pound. I'll see you soon, Mycroft."

He wasn't wrong, I did get soaked. But the next time I saw him, I noticed the same thing I had in that office. He didn't seem quite so uncertain, when he was holding that umbrella his hands didn't do that nervous dance across his waistcoat and, in a roundabout way, I had done him a favour.

**AN. Hey, just a quick query, does anyone know what's happening on tumblr between the Sherlock fandom and the Supernatural fandom? Apparently there's fighting, I'm just curious about why/where, since I can't actually see it going on. Plus, the drama could be fun to watch.**


	27. 2009 - I'm not your landlady dear (yet)

**2009 - I'm not your landlady dear (yet)**

**Sherlock POV **

It was getting towards Christmas time, or at least that's what I could gather from all the chaos on the streets of London, as people went about their last minute shopping. I had never particularly cared for Christmas, I had hardly had the typical "Christmas dinner and presents" way of growing up, so I barely even noticed that it was that time of year. But walking down Oxford Street, I could tell that it was distinctly more rushed than usual, I was getting nudged and bumped and shoved from all directions, the sky was darkened by the shortened day and everyone was fighting to finish their shopping in the bitter cold.

The only advantage that I could see with Christmas was that the arguments between family members – due to bitter resentments brought up by being confined for a day or Christmas parties with too much alcohol and too much proximity to hated friends and colleagues, combined with the money troubles - all made for a greater influx of cases, which the odd interesting one bobbing in the trough of pointless drivel. I was on my way back from investigating a department store's Santa Clause, who had been – wrongly I had quickly deduced – accused of paedophilia and stealing from the boss.

A small force ricocheted off my back and there was a yelp, making me spin around to find that a little old woman had been shoved by a particularly overworked single mother with very sharp elbows, straight into my back. In the process, the little old woman – who had begun apologising profusely and struggling to stoop down and pick up the debris – had dropped her shopping. I was interested to note that it was all groceries, rather than Christmas presents for family or friends, either she had done all of the shopping to avoid the rush or she didn't have anyone to give presents to.

In the collision, she had managed to drop everything; jars were smashed, cartons of milk burst and dented tins rolling across the floor. Everyone else didn't seem to even notice her there, preferring to walk around the old woman, and even bumping into her and simply buffeting off her, knocking us both back and forth. As soon as she hit me, I had frozen to the spot, old reflexes igniting and stopping me dead. A century earlier and bumping into someone, even if it wasn't my fault, would have resulted in being kicked in the street or drawing attention to myself for ridicule. I was used to keeping to myself in the streets, to staying silent and never catching people's eyes, nowadays I pretended to swoop in my coat with my newfound confidence but really I was fighting the urge to pull my scarf up and hide my face. I was waiting for a shouting or screaming fit, someone telling me to watch where I was going, but it never came, the woman simply asked me, her voice like warm honey, but sounding as flustered as she looking, as she rushed to scoop everything back into the bags and get out of the way of the other shoppers,

"I'm so sorry, dear, are you alright? I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going-" I blinked,

"No, it wasn't you fault, it was that woman behind you. She pushed you, and she made you drop you shopping, may I be of any assistance?" I bent down and began carefully repacking the bags, before hissed as I accidentally tried to pick up a broken jar and sliced my hand,

"Oh dear, that looks rather bag. Here, let me do that-"

"No, it's fine, I've had much worse. It wasn't your fault, so you shouldn't have to do all the cleaning up-" I quickly finished repacking the bags and she went to take them back, I held them slightly away from her, "why don't I help you with them? They're quite heavy-"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to be a trouble-"

"It's not trouble at all." She smiled at me,

"You rarely meet a good old-fashioned gentleman these days. I live on Baker Street, it's only about two minutes away… I'll get you something for your hand when we get there."

We walked in a comfortable silence for a short while, as I wondered how she had carried so many heavy bags with her tiny little frame and the weight in them, until she said softly,

"I didn't quite catch your name-"

"Sherlock Holmes-" She looked thoughtful, and then gasped,

"I recognise that name... oh yes now I remember, I saw your website. You're very good; I was going to send you an email about my husband."

"Well, any way I can be of assistance, Mrs Hudson." She blinked in surprise, I half expected her to get affronted and accuse me of spying on her but she simply smiled, looking impressed,

"Oh, that's very good, how did you guess my name?"

"You dropped your purse; I noticed the top of your driving license. What did you want to talk to me about, specifically, about your husband? I'm afraid I don't cover many cases of mysterious spouses creeping around, it is usually an affair in most of them-" She sighed heavily,

"No, no, it's nothing like that... well, he's been in a bit of trouble recently - with the law you know - but he won't talk to me about it. I wanted to find out a little bit more; a detective seemed the best bet-"

"You wish to find evidence that'll keep your husband out of prison?"

"Oh no, I want to make sure that he's put away. He's going to America soon and I know what they do to criminals out there, I want someone to follow him there if possible and get him caught. I was hoping-" I stared at the little woman, who looked so frail but motherly and kind, it hardly seemed plausible that those words were coming from her mouth. But she had been kind to me, she was so soft and sweet, I already felt a fondness for her and a protectiveness, there was no other answer that I could give,

"Consider it done; I'll put my best man on the job."

"Oh? Who would that be?" I smiled in that charming way that always managed to make Molly flush, a smile which I remembered that Elizabeth had been fond of,

"Me." She giggled slightly,

"Oh how wonderful! It would be lovely if you could Sherlock, you're such a nice boy."

We stopped outside her home - 221 Baker Street - and I placed the bags on her doormat, preparing to leave, until she placed a hand on my arm,

"Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea? I did promise you something for that hand-" I looked at the offending palm, truth be told I had actually forgotten it was bleeding,

"I shouldn't, I have to go analyse some samples-"

"Well, at least take a small piece of cake to go and some bandaging for that hand, even if you won't have the tea." I gave in after one look at her hopeful expression, quickly following her into her flat on the bottom floor. I accepted the cake and tea without argument, allowing her to gently bandage my hand as I sipped from my cup, listening to her explaining the case of her husband to me. I had a fairly good idea of how to proceed within minutes and she presented me with a ticket to America. I'd never travelled outside of Europe before – the only travelling I had done was from Geneva to Germany and then to here. I was quite excited at the prospect of visiting the new World, as it had been referred to in my day.

She pushed some more cake towards me, looking at me with a motherly sternness,

"Eat, you're so thin; you look as if a gust of wind would blow you away. Do you have anyone waiting for you at home... someone to feed you up?"

"No, I haven't got a girlfriend if that's what you're asking, it's not really my area of expertise." She smiled slightly, her eyes lighting up in an odd way,

"Oh- do you have a boyfriend then?"

"No, I don't. I'm best off alone. I had a brother but he ran off when we were much younger and left me and we're only just on talking terms again. I work better that way-"

"Oh well that seems silly. You're so peaky dear; you need someone to take care of you. How about your mother?"

"I don't really have one, the closest I ever had passed away a very long time ago, after my brother and I parted ways-" She reached out, gently putting her hand on my arm,

"I'm sorry to hear that dear, what about your father?"

"He left me, at an even younger age and was in and out for the rest of my life. He wouldn't help me if I had a gun pointed at my chest; in fact, he would most likely have been the one who pulled the trigger, given half the chance. Besides, he died long ago also. As I said, I have a brother who takes 'care' of me but he mainly watches, rather than looks after me."

"Well, how about finding a significant other? You're at the sort of age where men settle down and you're such handsome boy; if you had a haircut for those unruly curls and fattened yourself up a bit, you'd be fighting the girls… or boys," I rolled my eyes at that, she was clearly decided on my - actually fairly flexible – sexuality, "off with a stick." I chuckled and just shook my head,

"I don't think so, Mrs Hudson." She sat back, a thoughtful expression on her face,

"Well, I could always give my nephew a ring, he just split up with his partner, and is looking to settle down, I'm sure he'd love to meet you. My sister says he's always meeting new men, she thinks he goes to Jazz bars to meet men… I think she said he was a swinger-" I choked slightly on the slice of cake I was eating, looking up at her in shock. She honestly looked like butter wouldn't melt, with her innocent smile, but I could see a slight devilish look in her eyes. She smiled at me, making me return the look, before taking a sip of tea and asking, "so how far do you have to go to get home?"

"Oh, not very far, I live in a bed-sit about ten minutes' walk away, my friend set me up there having decided he couldn't stand living with me for another second," I chuckled lightly, "I think my current landlord has taken a dislike to me and my... eccentricities."

"Oh, that's a shame. I think you're quite charming."

"Ah, well you have only known me for a very brief time."

"No, I think not. I understand what you're like, the website illustrates that fairly well, and I must say that I find your work fascinating. I'd offer you a flat but my flat upstairs has two bedrooms and the rent is a bit steep."

Her hands returned to fixing my hand, and once the bandage was tightened she frowned slightly and said quietly,

"Sherlock, dear," I looked up at her, confused as to why she was suddenly so pale,

"Yes, Mrs Hudson?" Before I could stop her, she had pushed my sleeve up, revealing one of the scars left by the bullet wounds in my forearm, and the faint circle from the cuffs from my freak-show days, both of which were just peeking out from under my rolled up sleeve. She gasped, as I hurriedly shoved the sleeve back down,

"What happened to you?" I frowned, focusing on a spot on the wall,

"I was a soldier before I was a detective-"

"Oh really? My husband fought in the Falklands, where were you stationed? Afghanistan of Iraq?" I looked down at my hands, wishing I could tell her the truth, and sighed,

"I do not wish to speak about it, please, Mrs Hudson." Her hand reached around, taking mine in hers as she spoke soothingly,

"Of course, dear, I didn't mean to pry-"

"What the bloody hell is this?" I looked up from her kindly face to see a man stood in the doorway with a face like thunder. His knuckles were clenched, a vein throbbing in his forehead, and he was looking back and forth between us, "upgraded to a younger model, have you Mary?" If only he knew how wrong that statement was. I was old enough to be his grandfather, even his great-grandfather.

I could see that, despite the fact she had mentioned offhandedly that he'd quit smoking at her encouragement, he'd had been using a tobacco pipe recently, he walked with the slight limp of a man trying to conceal a knee injury from falling whilst running a few days ago and his eyes were bloodshot. He was clearly hung-over from a night out yesterday, an alcoholic judging by the slight tremble of his hands and the lock on the liquor cabinet. That added to the bruising to his knuckles and her trembling at his rage confirmed that he was abusive towards the old woman who had let me into her home, instilling a cold rage in the pit of my now cake and tea filled stomach, as I thought of her kindness and trust, of her taking me in and helping me,

"No, she has not. I helped her bring her shopping inside and I cut myself so she bandaged my hand, nothing else. I'll just be going now Mrs Hudson; if you phone me with the details of the job then I'll be in touch very soon. I promise you, I'll get the job done."

"Really, dear?" She looked so hopeful and so frightened in the same instant and, with one last look at her husband, I stated coldly,

"Nothing would give me more pleasure, Mrs Hudson. Good day to you both."

As I passed him in the doorway - our chests barely a few inches apart and his head tipping back to allow him to glare up at me - I fought the urge to strike him, to break his nose. I had no doubt of what would happen the second I walked out and the door was shut, isolating the inhabitants of 221 Baker Street and allowing them privacy. I wished that I could stay, to protect her. But I had a case to solve and details to collect, and then the bastard would get what was coming to him. I was officially dedicating everything I had to her case, I would solve this as quickly as possible and I would make sure he went to prison. And not only that, but I would catch him in a in a state with the electric chair, and I would get front row seats. As much as I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat now, it just wouldn't be worth it, the long term approach would be best.

Not that it wouldn't have been bloody satisfying.


	28. 2010 - Who would want to live with us?

_AN. Okay four things:_

_1. SERIES THREE FILMING NEXT WEEK! WOOOOOOOOOO!_

_2. BENEDICT AND MARTIN SIGNED UP FOR SERIES FOUR! No, "wait until the main character may or may not be dead before we tell you if the series continues, suckas" Just think in 3013 we'll be watching series four... and yes that is a comment on how long it takes them to make a new series._

_3. Have you seen the picture from the read through? It's amazing and insane and the fandom is now obsessed with grapes… if you don't understand that then you're clearly not on tumblr. Go get on tumblr._

_4. This is unrelated to Sherlock but I'm looking for a beta to read through my novel, I abandoned it months ago after finishing and was never going to do anything with it… then started reading through it and actually liked it so I would like someone to do beta and spelling checks(not my strong points, as some reviews on this story will tell you and I will freely admit that I just miss entire words or put in the wrong words or just screw things up in general) If you would like to be involved then PM me and we'll chat, if not… well... don't, should be a simple enough jump of logic. It's a bit of an odd, fantasy novel, if you choose to get involved you'll realise it's a bit mental but I enjoy that so... hopefully won't scare other people away._

_And now, after that extremely long author note, here is the new chapter!_

* * *

**2010- Who would want to live with us?**

**Sherlock POV **

I didn't see Mrs Hudson for another month, having spent most of my time in America, trailing her husband and collecting evidence. She had been both ecstatic and saddened by the news when he was arrested and the next time we met was at the trial, where she gave evidence for a charge of spousal abuse. We had only spoken a few times but the fondness she felt for me was clear, and she seemed grateful for the support of my presence as she gave evidence, never once looking at her husband and staying strong, amazingly so, staring straight ahead, looking to me for reassurance every so often. Finally, he had been found guilty - we knew he would be - and she had sat by, sniffling only slightly, as he was condemned to death by the electric chair. For a minute, I had feared that I'd made a mistake and that she was regretting the harsh penalty but then she had reached to squeeze my hand and had thanked me quietly.

We had flown back to England together, along with the body, upon her request, which was to be buried a week later. She had explained to me on the plane that, apart from Mrs Turner next door, she didn't have many friends left; her jealous and controlling husband had driven nearly all of them away. But, whilst she had hated the man in the end, she cared enough that she needed to say goodbye to the man she once loved, who had been buried under the man he became as years passed. So, I offered to be there at the funeral in case she needed me, and she quietly accepted.

He was due to be buried in the village where they had been teenagers together, and childhood sweethearts before that, where they fell in love. There was a plot reserved for him in the corner of the graveyard behind the church they were married in, before they moved to London years later and he had gone away to war, which had been when everything started to go wrong. Even now, after everything he had done, she couldn't blame him for the changes that had happened when he came back from the Falklands, because war affected people in different ways. I had seen that first hand; war had been the first time I had felt like I belonged, like I had a place. When I was in trenches, with my fellow soldiers and later my friends, trapped together in those muddy ditches with shrapnel showering us, being shot at every day, my appearance had no longer matter, nothing had mattered. We were equals. The war had changed me for the better, made me feel like I belonged and given me a name at last, but it had done the opposite for George Hudson.

His ship had been hit by an Argentinian missile, every single one of his friends had died and he had never recovered. He was haunted by the memory of the smell and feel of blood all around him, of hearing his dying friends' cries and wondering if he would live to see the end of the day, as he almost drowned in freezing water. He had severe PTSD, they had eventually diagnosed him after she had kept coming back to the doctor in her desperation for an answer. All she knew was that her loving husband had come back a new man and this one was an angrier one, completely withdrawn and bitter, who refused to contemplate starting the family they had wanted. She suspected he was having many affairs with younger women as well.

"Everyone's affected differently," she kept telling me at the funeral, as if trying to justify him to me. I simply nodded, handing her a fresh handkerchief and staring ahead, at the uneven wall of headstones laid out before me.

The service was a tiny one; there were only five people at the graveside – his decrepit old mother, his wife, myself, the vicar and Mrs Hudson's only remaining friend, Mrs Turner. I knew the friendly little woman – who I had already grown fond of - would have a chance to make new friends now, without her husband controlling her every move and friendship, and I felt a small smug smile creep up, before I forced it down. We had won, that was all I cared about. Although it was hardly appropriate to grin at his graveside, and I stopped myself for Mrs Hudson – who would not have approved of my grinning. I would celebrate later when Mrs Hudson was slightly less unhappy. There were a few sniffles and at the end of a service - which was prompt, impersonal and not particularly moving, as befit a horrible, curmudgeonly wife-beating criminal, executed on America's death row - we went our separate ways quickly.

It was as she was walking away from the grave that she said quietly to me,

"I'm going to have to find a tenant for my flat upstairs. I simply can't manage the rent for much longer, his life insurance payment was barely enough to cover our debts... and he racked up a lot of debt with his drinking and gambling. I don't know how I'm going to eat and pay rent if I don't find someone. I may have to sell and move into a smaller house outside of London but it's all I know, I can't be doing with moving at my age. I know you don't have anyone to share with... but if you wanted-" I sighed, tightening my scarf and turning up my collar against the wind,

"I do free-lance work, Mrs Hudson, I only get the occasional fee and I waive the charge most of the time just to get the more interesting cases, I cannot make up the rent on my own. I shall talk to Mycroft about my savings; he's been in charge of them for a while now. If I find a solution, I promise to be in touch." She nodded sadly, patting me on the arm,

"Well, take care of yourself, Sherlock dear; I hope to see you again soon." I nodded,

"I'm sure I could be persuaded to come by once a month for a cup of tea. Goodbye, Mrs Hudson."

I didn't think about her offer of tenancy again until a certain Mike Stamford mentioned his own housing problems. From what I could get out of his rambling, I think his wife was having another child and they had no-where to put it, I couldn't imagine a baby would really take up that much space. They're only about the size of a loaf of bread… well Mycroft had been a particularly well risen loaf of bread but still, I never struggled to make him fit into my house. I had flippantly mentioned my need for a flat-mate, to move into a particular property, and he had said he'd see who he could find, despite the fact I told him that no-one would want to share a flat with me. I mean, not even Mycroft or Lestrade had wanted to keep living with me and that was a while ago, I had only gotten more intolerable and 'pissy' Lestrade told me.

But, by some miracle, Mike Stamford came up trumps because, that very same day, on the 29th of January – and this was the first time I've really focused on the date in nearly two hundred years, because this date was truly notable - a certain John Watson walked, or rather limped, into my life. A small, greying blonde soldier and doctor, both of which I had been many years ago, who was absolutely... perfect. And broken, he was so very broken, just like me. His scars ran as deep as mine. I could practically see the start of a perfect partnership. He hadn't run from my deductions, he'd even been impressed by them, and I knew that I could help with that limp of his. And he didn't call me that word, the one they'd all taken to calling me at Scotland Yard, not even once. I could almost feel the warmth of the goodness in him, the fight to always do the right thing and the ability to be the moral compass I had been searching for.

I had called Mrs Hudson before the day was out. He moved in with me three days later, by which time he saved me from the cab-driver. I loathe using the word 'saved' since it made feel like a damsel in distress but he really had been stupendous. I knew something with absolute certainty. He was perfect.


	29. 2010 - Detective John Watson

**AN. Wow, look at this, a lovely long chapter for you! So many words! I have had such a productive weekend, I've managed to rewrite nearly 70 pages of my book, entirely change the plot, and give you 17 pages worth of this. I'm on a roll... and cue writer's block for bragging (fingers crossed that that won't happen!)**

* * *

**2010 - Detective John Watson**

**John POV**

I moved in with Sherlock about a week ago, even I was still surprised by the whirlwind speed that we had decided to live together, although I never once regretted the decision. People told me that it was far too quick, that I knew nothing about him, he could been dangerous and insane but that was the thing. I had known he was exactly that from the second I met him and it didn't scare me, it excited me! He was what I had been waiting for since being sent back from Afghanistan and I almost got the feeling that he had been waiting for me too, for quite some time it seemed to me. It had just felt right, moving into 221B Baker Street with him.

Although, that did not mean he was an ideal flat-mate... far from it. He was the most infuriating man I had ever lived with, or possibly that I had even known, and even Lestrade had told me he couldn't bear living with Sherlock. I think Sherlock had stayed with the inspector for some time a few years ago and scarred him for life; I think that I am far more lenient towards Sherlock's less acceptable quirks. Although, I think he has gotten better since we first moved into 221B, the only thing that I absolutely cannot stand is the body parts in the fridge, and there had been arguments on the subject nearly every week.

There was another round about to fire up, I realised, as I opened the fridge to find a whole torso propped up against the back of the fridge. I sighed, irritation bubbling up as I tried breathing deeply, to calm myself, before going back into the living room. He was lying on his back, eyes shut and hands resting on his chest, but he must have heard me enter because he cocked his head slightly towards me and mumbled,

"Yes, John, how can I help you?"

"You know what I'm going to say."

"I have a few options to pick from, I'm going to go the safe route of not telling you any of them, which has the chance of being wrong and providing you with additional ammunition. So I shall just ask you to tell me what you're angry about at this particular moment in time." I shook my head, great so now I could look forward to finding all the other experiments in the next few days which he didn't want to mention because he knew it would annoy me. It wasn't uncommon for him to solve a case before he finished an experiment and subsequently forget about the body parts stashed in the kitchen. This would mean that I was constantly having to track them down purely by the putrid scent coming from the cutlery drawer. I decided to just focus on the current issue for now,

"The torso."

"I would have thought you would appreciate that, it's a woman's after all, and she's not entirely flat chested."

"I'm really hoping that that was a twisted joke because otherwise that was sick, and I will be seriously considering making an appointment for you as a psychiatrist's office." He raised an eyebrow,

"Do you contemplate that on most days?"

"I do. Just… get rid of the torso, please."

"I can't, I need it for my work. I have to do research if I want to find the answer-"

"What do you even need them for? Why not just read a book and get your information from there, like a normal person?" He grinned smugly,

"Do you really want me to become like a normal person?" He took my silence as an answer, and carried on, "I cannot simply read a book, the authors are generally idiots who have gotten it wrong or just mixed together information from other books. Besides, as a technique, it is not as effective and is quite frankly extremely dull. And most importantly, I chose this method because this is how my father worked."

"Was he a consulting detective as well?"

"No, of course not, I told you that I created the position."

"Well, what did he do?" I probed gently, wanting to know more about him but knowing from my admittedly brief experience that he kept his cards close to his chest on matters of family,

"He was a scientist; he did research into human anatomy and to get the most out of his final product, he dissected and experimented on literally thousands of body parts. His research was extremely in-depth and extensive, and before you ask I cannot discuss it."

"Why not?"

"Because," he sighed, looking extremely reluctant and as ifhe was about to get up and walk away, and refuse to say another word on the subject, "if I told you, you would never look at me in the same way again." I blinked, that was unexpected,

"Come on, it can't be that bad." The look on his face confirmed that it actually was, if this was something that Sherlock didn't feel at ease with then it must have been very _very _not good, "I see."

"No, you don't, I doubt you ever will and I can't say anything more than that. This is work which is not meant to be shared with the world, which would have remained in a laboratory - dormant and empty - had things not taken an unexpected turn that went very wrong. And trust me when I saw this, things went very wrong for him and that's why it's all kept top secret, rather than him being the celebrated genius he could have been otherwise. But, as I said, it is top secret and I'll say no more on the matter."

And true to his word, he refused to say anything else in the next few weeks, as I attempted to wheedle it out of him. As good as he was at revealing other people's secrets, he was even better at keeping his own. Which only made me more curious.

I left the matter alone for a while. Working long hours in the surgery and my brief romance with Sarah didn't really leave me with much time to be snooping through my flat-mate's shrouded past. I had my doubts that I would find anything anyway, I bet Mycroft had all of the best blocks in place to prevent anyone using that information against him or his brother.

But after the incident in the tunnel and my near death experience – and being dumped shortly after by Sarah – I started my investigations anew. They began with the person who had introduced me to Sherlock in the first place, Mike Stamford. He had apparently worked alongside Sherlock for about four years, ever since Sherlock had got Molly off of some serious murder charges. She'd been cleared before she was arrested but it seemed impossible that anyone could even begin to think she was capable of murder. I mean spend two minutes with the girl, you'll realise she would probably cry over swatting a fly!

Unfortunately, Mike – being the lazy and incurious bugger he was and content to just let Sherlock get on with it with no questions asked – wasn't exactly helpful on the matter:

* * *

From: Stamford, Mike

Sent: 29 March 2010 14:15

Subject: RE: Sherlock

_Good to hear from you, John. Glad to know I made the right choice getting you to together, there are rumours around the lab about you two, and I'd be chuffed if they turned out to be true. Anyway, how is living with Sherlock? It must be an absolute nightmare, he's a pain in my neck when we spend more than hour in the lab together. I took the full time lecturer job mainly to get out of the lab and away from him! _

_I can't say I know much about what he was up to in the labs, most of the time I assumed it was for cases but now that I think of it he had some old books and diagrams which looked like something else entirely. Is that what you wanted to know about? One thing's for certain, he's always been fascinated by bodies, as you can probably guess by the cadaver collection Molly seems to keep supplying to him. I guess it's because he wants to understand the way we are and, also, why he's the way he is. He seems to have more in common with the bodies than with the rest of humanity, and probably about the same level of compassion. He's an odd bloke, as you've most likely guessed by now, but he's a bonafide genius... but yes, very odd._

_I've known him for four years now and I still know next to nothing about him, although Greg Lestrade – who's cases I used to handle when I was the forensic pathologist for Bart's - says they met eight years ago and he barely knows him as well. Although, I do know one thing… he has never changed, not even slightly. He's not had a single weight fluctuation, his hair never grows or looks any different, he has yet to sprout any more wrinkles then the few lines he had when I met him, and he is exactly the same age as he was then. I've always kind of suspected that he's a vampire._

_Although, come to think of it, there has been a very tiny change. He's less... how do I put this? Hopeful, I guess would be the term. I think he used to want to meet someone, when he first met Molly and saw she was slightly pretty and interested in him, his eyes lit up for a second – until she started talking I'm guessing – and it was the same when he met similar students. But they were never quite what he was looking for I guess; until I think on that day you met. I know you're always saying you're not a couple but I don't know, he had that look again. He hasn't had it for a year at least, he's still a bastard but there's now a slightly visible nice, hopeful side beneath it. Molly says he's been slightly more tolerable of late, so who knows?_

_Anyway, sorry I can't be of more help; maybe if we got together for a drink then you could ask questions and possibly jog my memory. Let me know where/when and I'll try and sort something out. Mike._

* * *

From: Watson, John

Sent: 29 March 2010 16:19

Subject: RE: Sherlock

**Hi Mike, no for the MILLIONTH time there is nothing going on between me and Sherlock and I wish everyone would just stop thinking that! Also tell your students that I know about the pool on 'when John and Sherlock will finally shag' and that it's a certified "_never going to happen_". There is nothing between us, that 'look' you saw was nothing romantic, it was just him doing his X-Ray thing, that he does with everyone, okay?**

**But yes, that research and those books are what I'm looking into. I've tried asking him but he's ridiculously private, I'm beginning to wonder if they're blueprints for how to commit the perfect murder of your flat-mate. If he does kill me then I know who to blame for pairing me with him.**

**Thanks for your help anyway, and yes a drink would be great. Portland Arms, Friday at seven? John**

* * *

Mike had been no more help in person than in his email, so eventually I'd just stopped digging around in my flatmate's past. Well I say digging, that would imply that I actually managed to get some dirt… it was more like I was scrabbling my fingernails over concrete patio slabs, entirely pointless. I just had to accept that if he was going to tell me anything then he would do it in his own time. There was one thing I allowed myself to wonder about. Sherlock's manners as a flat-mate were, quite frankly, appalling; I asked him if he'd ever had a flatmate in the past. He looked up at me over his Bunsen burner, face covered in black smudges and whatever was in the beaker at the end of his tongs, going an unfortunate shade of black,

"Technically, no. I stayed as a guest on Lestrade's sofa for a few months, before he found me a bedsit and told me to get out. I lived there until we moved here, I never had need of a flat mate before."

"Well, what changed?" He sighed, looking thoroughly inconvenienced by my question,

"I found a two bedroom flat, Mrs Hudson wanted me to live here and I wanted to live here. It takes two people to fill in a two bedroom flat, and I have no need for a guest bedroom – have you seen any friends who might want to come stay with me?"

"Well no, when you put it like that. So I assume Lestrade didn't teach you good living habits-"

"He tried many times. He found about the same number of my habits as annoying as you do, perhaps a few more, but failed to take them in his stride and acclimatise, which is why I eventually overstayed my welcome and went to live somewhere else."

"I'm just confused as to how you have never learnt to live with someone else and be even mildly tolerable on your good days. Surely your posh parents would have instilled manners into you when you were growing up." He returned to his experiment, pouring something into the beaker and resurrecting the charred remains with a concoction of chemicals which seemed like nonsense to me but worked perfectly, clearly avoiding my gaze as he replied,

"I never lived with my parents."

"Okay, well boarding school must have taught yo-"

"I didn't attend a boarding school." I was getting more confused by the second, why couldn't he just give me a straight answer?

"Then why didn't you live with your par-? Oh," it suddenly hit me, "I'm sorry, I didn't know that you were an orphan." He gave me a look, clearly getting bored of the incessant questions but this was the most I'd even gotten out of him on his past, so I wasn't about to abandon the one line of questioning that was actually progressing,

"No, I lived by myself and by my own means when I was growing up. I was accustomed to living on the streets, where there are no rules or etiquette because you just work to survive. My father never wanted me so he didn't teach me any of the things that you would consider to be common knowledge, I was alone. That's why I am so accustomed to keeping my homeless network. The first time I employed one of them, the police officers thought I was mad to give the money to a homeless teen. They thought I was just throwing money away and it would just be used for drugs. He's now a regular who has helped me solve eight different crimes, who has just completed detoxing and is about to go back to sschool. I understand their lives, perhaps I even sympathise."

"But- what about Mycroft? He's what, ten years older than you? Didn't he look after you-?"

"He wasn't around when I was younger, nor when I was older. In fact he's only been there for a very brief window in my life."

"Sherlock, I'm so sor-"

"Sorry. Yes, I know you are but - unlike him - you have no reason to be. You're not the father who abandoned me as a young child, nor are you the cold and absent brother. Now, I would appreciate if you would stop prying into my life, thank you." I nodded, feeling chastened and bad about making him feel uncomfortable.

I didn't hear anything more about Sherlock's background or father for a further couple of weeks. It was an ordinary day, I had been doing the laundry and Sherlock had apparently walked in and dumped some of his clothes in with mine. Obviously he didn't think to separate his colours from my batch of white clothes so by the time I got back to the finished wash cycle, not knowing of the additions, all of my white socks were bright pink. When confronted he simply said that he's deleted that information and then gone out to solve a case.

With a sigh, I decided to go hunt in his bottom drawer for a pair of replacement socks which weren't the colour normally associated with a new born baby girl. I soon found out that Sherlock, quite literally, only owned plain black dress shoe socks, which were all kept in a clearly very well ordered index. I heaved a sigh of frustration and let my hand drop down onto the bottom with a thud. Perhaps it was living with the very-observant detective, but my attention to detail had certainly improved as I realised... that that had sounded hollow. I hit it again, slightly harder, and was astounded to see the bottom fall out and reveal another few inches of previously unseen drawer hidden beneath a false bottom and socks. And I'd hit the absolute mother load.

All of his research notes were spread out in the drawer – I spotted some had the name Victor Frankenstein, a very small few had the name Tommy Frankenstein and the majority had his name scrawled wherever it was needed, most were in the same looping script that I associated with Sherlock's hand. I took keen interest in the fact that Tommy and Sherlock shared handwriting… had that been his name? Had he changed it to Sherlock? I pulled the pages from the drawer and found detailed drawings and notes, long paragraphs on anatomical structures and results from experiments, details of body snatching and bodies donated to science. It was so impossibly Victorian and I gasped as I read the details of how one man had been snatched from his grave in Oxford and his organs removed for Victor's work. There was even a detailed drawing of an entire body with annotations of where about 25% of the corpse had begun to rot with what appeared to be scribbled plans of how to add in new body parts and repair the damage.

Sherlock had made annotations over some of the work, footnotes with improvements and suggestions, and filled out pages and pages with surprisingly realistic sketches of scarred limbs and torsos, even a scarred face that I couldn't help but think shared a striking resemblance to Sherlock's much more handsome one... did I just think that? Yes, Sherlock was handsome but I shouldn't be thinking like that. No, it was fine, anyone could see that he was handsome; I could see that objectively as a heterosexual friend, anyone could. But then most heterosexual friends didn't notice how soft his pronounced top lip looked... stop it John, you're straight.

I kept reading the notes, forcing my mind from my mental image of Sherlock's face and determinedly keeping my eyes of the scarred one in the picture. I forced myself to try and read the detailed notes – a lot of which went right over my head, even with my medical training. They kept referring to a specimen, but I couldn't figure out what it was, Sherlock seemed to have taken particular care never to mention it by any other term, perhaps in case someone stumbled across the notes as I had. I had barely scratched the surface of all the detail before a small rectangle of folded paper fell out from the pages. I stooped to pick it up, eyes going wide as I unfolded it.

The black and white picture – which appeared to be a newspaper cutting - was of an emaciated man curled up in the corner of a cage, looking catatonic as he drew in on himself. It was appalling, he looked like he had been banished to the confines of Hell and had lost all hope during his imprisonment. He was sat with his legs drawn loosely towards his scarred body, every inch of his torso ridged with healing scars and fresh open wounds from what appeared to be whippings, with nothing but his arms to cover his nakedness. The lighting on his face seemed specifically designed to show off his scars to their full potential and beneath the scars, nothing I hadn't seen after Afghanistan, I could see a face with an aristocratic profile, sharp cheekbones defined by the harsh light and the hollowness of that gaunt face. His pale eyes didn't seem to be focusing on anything now and his hair was just thin fuzz across a hideously scarred scalp, to match the highly defined scars that marred his otherwise handsome face. The thing that most struck me was just how much he looked like my flatmate – they could almost be twins - but that was impossible because this man was clearly around in the 19th century, perhaps towards the end of that period judging by the technology required to produce this image.

"John, I would appreciate it if you could put the notes back exactly as you found them. I'll be in the kitchen when you wish to speak." I stared after him in horror, having been caught prying in the absolute worst possible way, but he was gone in a whirl of coat-tails. I did as he asked; I put everything back as I best as I could, although he would no doubt move it all before I could look again to stop me reading any more of it. It took at least ten minutes, after which I walked out to the kitchen, feeling like a naughty kid going to the headmaster's office, where I found him at the microscope, a cup of tea sat awaiting me by his side. I briefly compared his slender form and half concealed face to that of the man in the photograph clutched in my hand. With the exception of his hair, the slight weight gain and the scars... they could have been the same person, and I briefly considered that maybe there were – despite how impossible that seemed. I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to it, "sit down."

I did as ordered without saying a word, and he turned to me, "what have you learnt from my notes?"

I sighed, running a hand through my short hair and collapsing back in my seat,

"I- I'm not entirely sure... there was a specimen, something being experimented on, is that right?" He nodded, still not fully meeting my eye, "and your father, Victor, was experimenting on it? And this specimen... it was either made of or required the use of body parts?"

"Yes, I believe you have hit the nail on the head."

"And you're carrying on his work?"

"I am his-" He stopped, looking up and staring at the wall, as if realising what he was about to say, "I am his son, I know his work better than any. No-one else could."

"But what is it for? What does this have to do with the picture? Why does that man in the picture look so similar to you? Is it your father or your grandfather-"

"I cannot answer those questions. Only three people are privy to that information in the world now: myself and Mycroft and Lestrade to an extent, and it must remain that way until I know that you can be trusted-"

"Of course, I can be trusted! I would never tell anybody your secrets-"

"I'm not worried about you revealing them. I do not know how you will react, whether you can be trusted not to walk out of that door and not come back-"

"Not that I ever would, but surely it can't be that bad, Sherlock-"

"John, listen carefully to me because I will only say this to you once. In the past few months I have grown quite fond of you, you remind me of a woman called Elizabeth... far more kind and intelligent than the rest of the society, and most importantly you have been able to keep my interest. I value your company. If I tell you the truth, it could mean that you walk away from me and I am not ready for you to do that yet. Mycroft did that to me not long ago, and I think it might kill me if the process is repeated. Give me time and assurance and, one day, perhaps I can trust you not to do so. Until then, I must ask once again that you do not keep looking for my secrets and that you allow me time to feel ready to tell you, or I will be the one forced to walk away from you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do."

We were silent for a minute, until I couldn't hold it in for a second longer, "but I just want you to know that I would never walk away from you, whatever this research is... whatever you feel incapable of telling me, I will accept it and I will not let it change how I think about you. I care about you too much for that. You're my best friend-" And perhaps... you're even starting to feel like more, I thought wistfully. Not that I could ever tell you that, you'd never return those feelings. So I'll settle for you simply being fond of me, and you're certainly that. He smiled slightly,

"Thank you for respecting my privacy, John. Now please, may I have the picture?" I held it slightly, reluctant to lose this little piece of the past that I had found but finally relenting and handing it to him. He allowed himself a lingering look, a look of pure sadness crossing his face as he took in the tragic sight of the suffering man,

"Who is it?"

"I'll tell you the same thing I told Mycroft. He was a freak, at least in the eyes of society. But he was a good man once, and I hope one day he can be again."

"But who is he?"

"One day, John. One day, I'll tell you... I'll answer all of these questions. I promise you. Just not now."

I nodded, picking up the tea in front of me. It was cold and disgusting, for all his genius and talents making tea had never been one of them. He had experimented not long ago, with making tea. He did hundreds – possibly thousands - of experiments to find the perfect brew. He had piled cups of tea metres high in the kitchen, changing the amounts of sugar and milk. Somehow, as impossible as it seemed, he had only been able to make one drinkable cup and that was still debateable, he just couldn't make tea.

We sat in a companionable silence for the next couple of hours, only speaking once or twice as I handed him slides and noted how nice his eyes looked like with the light shining on them and tried to force those thoughts down.

Don't frighten him off, I thought.


	30. 2010 - Scars

**2010 – Scars**

**John POV**

Placing my keys on the table by the front door, I set to work lugging the shopping into the living room, dumping it with a sigh,

"No, that's alright Sherlock; I don't need any help, you just stay there." I glanced over at where he was lying on the sofa, feet up and not even offering to help,

"What?" I gave him my best disapproving look, the one which occasionally managed to achieve something, and put my hands on my hips,

"The bloody bags! I've had to haul ten shopping bags—half of which are food for you or ingredients for your experiments—all the way from the shop, which is a ten minutes away, and then up a flight of stairs. I have a bad shoulder — the least you could do is give me a hand!" He didn't respond to that, so I just waved a hand in his direction and gave up, dragging the bags in the kitchen and beginning to put things away. As I did so, I began to realise that it wasn't just the ordinary clutter that I was used to, something had clearly happened in here—there had been a dispute or a fight, "Sherlock, have you been arguing with Mrs Hudson or Mycroft in here?"

There was no response and, beginning to feel a little bit worried, I went back into the living room and I looked at him properly. It was then that the worry because genuine panic. His usually pale skin was an unhealthy ghostly colour, and he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. "Sherlock?" Again, there was no response except for a brief flutter of his eyes, so he definitely wasn't asleep. I dropped the bag I was holding and rushed to his side, "Sherlock! What's wrong?" He turned his head slightly, and frowned,

"John? When did you get here?"

"Ten minutes ago, remember? What happened, are you hurt?" He winced again and croaked,

"My side, it's on fire." I shoved the suit jacket out of the way, to reveal a deep red stain spreading just above his hips. I sucked in my breath, hearing the horror in the noise even as it flooded my body. I ignored the tingle in my fingertips as they moved across his skin and pushed the shirt—my favourite red one I noted automatically— out of the way. I was horrified when I found that my fingers came away slick with blood. He had dropped his head back, unable to hold it up a second longer; he looked extremely grumpy about being so weak, as I rushed to assess the damage and apply pressure to the now unobstructed stab wound on his side,

"Jesus Christ, what happened, Sherlock?"

"I came home from a case to find a teenager in the kitchen, planning to steal from us. To add insult, he was even wanted to take some of our food. He panicked when he saw the torso in the fridge and thought I would kill him for breaking in, so he attacked in self-defence and ran off." I had to fight the urge to bang him on the shoulder in frustration, although that would only make it worse,

"And you didn't think to get any help?!"

"I've had similar wounds and they've never affected me like this before-" He looked deeply put out by that, but I was too focused on stopping the bleeding to pay more attention to his obvious confusion,

"Fine, now stop talking and save your energy." I switched on the lamp beside the sofa, to get a better look at the wound. I frowned, as anyone would at the damage, but thankfully it didn't look too bad, "it's not too deep, maybe a few centimetres, but there's no damage to any major arteries. Although, you've lost a fair bit of blood so you'll need a transfusion at the hospital-"

"No hospitals, John." I blinked, sitting back and giving him my best authoritative doctor look, which didn't seem to have any effect — not that I expected it to on Sherlock,

"Sherlock, you're bleeding, you need a transfusion and stitches-"

"Well you're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor who is used to giving stitches in the field-"

"We're not in the field! We're in our flat in London and I only gave stitches in the field when there was no way to get them to the hospital in time. Whereas there is a perfectly good hospital down the road and you're just being too stubborn to go. It'll hurt, you know, having stitches without anaesthetic, and I don't have any antibiotics or sterilised tools, so you could easily get an infection."

"I can't go to the hospital, John, and that's final. You can either give me the stitches here or let me ruin the sofa, but I refuse to leave this spot."

"I can't give you a blood transfusion here!"

"I don't need one, it won't kill me!"

"Why? Because you're just too stubborn to die?"

"Yes, I suppose you could put it like that." I growled, letting my head fall into my hands from frustration, and then groaning as I realised I had probably just smeared blood all over my face. I sat back on my heels, took a deep breathe to calm myself and then asked gently,

"Why don't you want to go to the hospital, Sherlock?" Despite the seriousness of the situation I couldn't help but tease, "are you afraid of the big bad doctors?"

"I hardly think I would let you live here, if that were the case."

"Well, it's either that or you're afraid of hospitals, which is just as unlikely because you spend most of your time in St Bart's. So, why then?"

"I can't go to a hospital because... well, because... I just can't-"

"Sherlock, you might think it is in the blood loss haze, but that's not a proper excuse."

"I can't go for treatment there, John, and I really cannot tell you why-"

"Oh for God sake, you know I'm getting really sick of this, of you constantly keeping secrets! You never tell me anything-"

"You said that you understood-"

"I do but I that doesn't mean I like it. I'm always in the dark and you know absolutely bloody everything about my life, and everyone else's for that matter!"

"Fine!" He snapped, blood loss and pain loosening his tongue and making him so light-headed that I doubt he really knew what he was saying, "I can't go because they don't have records for me! The NHS doesn't even know I exist. In an official sense I don't exist, that's why Mycroft couldn't find me when I disappeared."

"Wh- how can you- how is that even possible? You must have records, when you were born you would have needed a birth certificate-"

"No because according to them I was never born, my father never even gave me a name so he couldn't have even had a certificate printed, even if he'd wanted to."

"What do you mean he didn't give you a name?"

"I mean, he didn't give me a name. I spent most of my life being referred to as his 'thing' or 'the creature' or just 'him' and I had to give myself a name. And after that, I never felt like having a birth certificate printed, it seemed like unnecessary work and quite inconvenient for me, it made me too easy to keep track of and far too permanent in people's lives. I cannot be permanent. I've never been able to stay anywhere for long without them noticing things about me, and that would put me at risk." I chuckled at the absurdity of what he seemed to be saying,

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? Are you," I chuckled uneasily, "are you some sort of vampire or immortal or something?" He didn't respond for a whole minute, and my chest clenched in shock, my heart skipping a beat, until he shook his head and spat,

"Don't be absurd, John, it's the blood loss speaking. Please, just forget I said any of that; I don't want to go into the hospital because I don't like being a patient, they ask too many questions and there are far too many stupid, incapable doctors, I would rather be helped by my doctor, who I can trust, rather than enter that raffle. Now, please, could you just stitch me up here?" I groaned, heaving myself to my feet,

"Fine, but you can get the milk for me for the next week, and not bring any body parts home, for the next month as repayment."

"Fine."

I went back into the kitchen to wash my hands, wrinkling my nose as Sherlock's blood swirled around the drain, staining it temporarily red. I turned, examined the mess and went on my hunt, until I found the first aid kit under Sherlock's pile of papers and experiments. We always kept it close to hand – in case his experiment went wrong.

Pulling my chair up beside the sofa, I rolled my sleeves up and asked, cheeks burning,

"Can you take your shirt off please, Sherlock?" He scowled, shuffling away from me slightly,

"Why? I'll hold the shirt out of the way and you can stitch-"

"Well, can you actually manage to hold it out of the way?" He scoffed, clearly thinking I was patronising him, reached round and instantly gasped at the jolt of the wound stretching, before staring at it, looking almost confused, "I didn't think so. Now, what is that look for?"

"I normally- I don't usually feel this much pain."

"Well, do you make a habit of getting stabbed?" He didn't dignify that with a response, he just frowned again. I sighed, "stop being difficult and take your shirt off, I need to check for other wounds." He huffed, pushing the shirt out of the way and crossing his arms over his chest, indignantly,

"There aren't any-"

"I beg to differ, have you seen that massive footprint bruise on your stomach? Seriously, how can you not be feeling that?" He glanced down and looked almost reassured,

"I have a high pain tolerance, that's why I was surprised by how much the stab wound hurt. But clearly things haven't changed too much." I stood up, crossing to the door,

"Whatever. Now, I'm going to switch on the light because I can't see a blasted thing, give me a second. I flicked on the main light and both of us blinked through the cold white spots that attacked our pupils. I made my way back over to the side and, when my sight finally cleared, I gaped. He was extremely lean—I'd always known that—although he was actually more muscular than I had anticipated. He was far healthier than his eating habits should allow him to be, but it was whip-cord muscle rather than bulk. Now, I could see why he didn't want me looking under his shirt,

"My God, Sherlock- what the Hell? Are those scars- are they from-?"

"Bullet wounds? Yes, they are."

"But- how?" I pushed the shirt completely out of the way, ignoring Sherlock's weak protests, and couldn't help but clap my hand over my mouth, to stop a string of curse words falling from my lips, "oh my God, there's- how did you get so many? They're all the same age, so they all happened at the same time, how the hell could you have possibly survived. You must have been bloody lucky-" He let out a small puff of breath that sounded like a bitter laugh,

"I suppose you could call it that. I think I got all of the luck on that day. I wish I could have shared it round." I looked more closely, at the more faded scars that lay beneath the circles of scar tissue that looked like knots in wood, like the scar on my shoulder. These older scars looked like long strips, as if he had been hit by the crack of the whip and I could tell they got denser towards his back, clearly most of the damage was there. The others had jagged edges which reminded me of being a medical student and seeing a man who had come in after having a glass bottle thrown at him in the street, "those are-" I stopped, I couldn't say it. It made me feel sick just thinking about it, thinking that someone had whipped my friend, and thrown things at him. I wanted to take down the name of anyone who had ever hurt him like this and I wanted to go get my gun and put as many bullets into each of them as they had inflicted scars on him. He didn't even look fazed; he was just staring at the ceiling, pale and slightly shaky from the blood loss, silently reminding me that he was currently bleeding to death. Well maybe not to death. If the multiple bullet wounds in a day were anything to go by: Sherlock could probably live through a nuclear war, a tsunami and an earthquake and _still_ have the energy to go out on a case. It was just a surprise that he seemed to have lost some of that resilience, which meant that he had been forced to lie down after a shallow stab wound, a minor wound in comparison. Perhaps he had finally admitted that he was human and decided to act like it.

"Stitch me up and I will tell you the truth, since I doubt I will hear the end of it now."

As I started to work, he sighed and spoke gently,

"You remember the first time that we met?"

"Of course I do, how could I? It was only a few months ago." A crease formed between his eyebrows and he asked,

"Was it really such a short while ago?" I smiled slightly,

"Yes, I know what you mean; it does feel like we've lived together for years. But in a good way, of course." He nodded, curls bobbing up and down,

"In a very good way." I smiled again, before he continued his tale,

"You remember that I asked if you had been in Afghanistan or Iraq?" I nodded, "and I knew you were military just by looking at your posture."

"Yeah, I thought it was pretty impressive, I didn't realise it was that noticeable-"

"It's not: not to the untrained eye. But I have a familiarity with military men; I spent some time with them in my youth – quite a lot of time actually. I didn't want to be there at first, someone told me that I would find acceptance in a war but it seemed unlikely. Then I found a group who I befriended, and admired. They were men who I suffered and fought alongside - and who accepted me when no-one else would. It was their best quality, and one that I immediately recognised in you." I stared at him, hand freezing over the suture as I asked him the same question which had once been directed to me,

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He shook his head and said,

"Neither, John."

"Then where-?"

"I can't-"

"Don't tell me you can't! I just found out you were shot ten times and I have seen your other scars! These look like abuse! Is this why you didn't live with your father?"

"No, John."

"Tell me the truth, Sherlock, the whole truth! I won't run, I won't judge, I'll listen to you and accept you. How many people have done that for you?" He stared up at me,

"Not enough. That's why I don't want to tell you," his gaze fixed on mine, burning like ice with a raw pain and anger that almost made me back down, "but I will now. Sit back and get comfortable, we are going to be here a while. I'm going to tell you everything."

* * *

**AN. I just wanted to say how happy I am, to have 207 reviews is marvellous and I appreciate every single one - even the less positive ones. I hope you all stick with me and continue to read and maybe even drop me a few more reviews because they mean to world to me, I adore all of you.**


	31. 2010 - The truth

**2010 - The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth**

**John POV**

He looked so vulnerable, so young and unsure, and so unbelievably uncertain. I almost didn't want him to tell me, because this had the potential to destroy everything we had been working to create in the past few months since moving into 221B. I would say that you could have cut the tension with a knife but it was just too great, the knife wouldn't even have scratched the tension in that moment, everything seemed to mount so that when he spoke I almost jumped out of my skin,

"Promise me that this will not change how you see me." I shook my head, wishing I could but knowing that in the end it wasn't fair to promise that,

"I can't make that promise, Sherlock. I don't know what you're going to say, I don't know how I'm to feel about what you say. But I can promise that I won't run away, that ultimately it won't change how I feel about you."

"And how do you feel about me?" _That's a good question, Sherlock_, I thought_, because not even I know the answer_. Or rather, I knew the answer... I'd known it for a few months by now, but I couldn't tell him. He didn't feel the same way—he probably couldn't feel the same way—because he didn't love and if he did it wasn't in the way that everybody else did,

"You're my best friend, Sherlock; you're the most important person in my life. I won't walk away from that, I promise. I'm going to stick it out until the very end."

He sighed but nodded, his hands running over his face and into his hair, ruffling it back and forth in frustration before his hands shot forwards, as if trying to make his point with just gesticulation,

"I suppose we should start with one of the most important but less shocking facts and ease you into it. I was... born shall we say—at least for now—in the city of Ingolstadt, that's in Germany in case you can't figure it out from the Germanic name. The date of my birth came at some time in the winter of 1818 -"

"That's impossible-"

"If we're going to get through this story you must understand that nothing is impossible when it comes to my past-"

"Sherlock, it is definitely impossible because that would make you 194 years old-" He chuckled,

"That was some fast maths, John-" I cut him off,

"Don't try and joke about this, Sherlock. How the Hell can you be nearly two hundred years old? Tell me, how the Hell is that even possible?"

He sighed, slumping back into the sofa and closing his eyes, just to shut out the look of shock on my face my face, his own face was an emotionless mask as he continued,

"When I said I was born... I lied. I was not born, not in the conventional way. My father was a man called Professor Victor Frankenstein, and he was a Genius like none other. He was obsessed with understanding how life was created and with making himself a God on Earth, he wanted to craft a man and give it life just to show that he could. He never thought of the consequences, to himself or the fiend he had created." The way he spoke sparked a memory, connected some dots that had been left abandoned and on their own in the back of my mind,

"Oh God. That's the specimen isn't it? The specimen from your papers?"

"Yes, that was him... but it wasn't just a specimen in an experiment, it was a Human Being crafted from dead flesh, flesh that had been snatched from graves and stitched together. It was a monster, with horrific scars and little comprehension of the world. It was never meant to leave Victor's laboratory after he brought it to life, and it's lived ever since, struggling by with the very burden of its existence. That specimen-" And I knew, I could see the pain in his eyes and I knew,

"It was you."

And with that the tension became suffocating, and the simple movement of his head nodding was enough to disturb the silence, to put me on the edge of my seat. I couldn't help the expression of pure, unadulterated shock as I muttered through the hand which was still trying to cover my gaping mouth, "Sherlock, you mean to tell me that you were built by a mad Genius, sculpted from body parts which were turned into a man and brought to life-? How did he do it? I've never heard of anything like it-"

"That's because his notes were burnt, except for those that I stole. Laws were brought in later that century, I think they were the result of the rumours that followed me like the stench on the corpses he stole me from. They banned anybody from attempting it, anywhere in the world—calling it unethical—for which I am glad. No-one should ever suffer as I did... and as the others in my life suffered because of me. Now, I am the only one to know the secret of how I was brought into this world, the knowledge cannot be found anywhere else and I will take it to my grave before I let someonecreate another of my pitiful kind."

He looked so furious and broken, drawing in on himself slightly as he voiced the thoughts that had evidently swallowed him for his whole life, "in the beginning, I didn't truly understand it. I looked at his notes but I didn't how he could turn dead flesh into a whole new person. He had a truly unique mind to bring all of the knowledge into creation, into my creation. For years, I worked to fill in most of the gaps but I did not know what spark actually brought me to life. There was electricity, lightning bolts channelled into my flesh, which animated me... but I didn't understand how that actually forced me to live. But that spark continues on, keeping me alive as your soul does you-"

"I wouldn't have thought of you as a person who believes in souls. Whenever we walk past those preachers in the street you always say that you do not have an immortal soul that needs saving-"

"That does not mean that I don't believe others do. Everyone out there has a soul, you have a soul... but I do not, I am fundamentally wrong to the very core. I think I understand it now, in the way that Victor did. Children are created by typical procreation, that is what makes a baby but it doesn't make a person, a person is made my love—be it emotional or physical—which... I don't know how to explain this; I suppose you could say it jolts them into life. Victor substituted that love with a true jolt, of electricity, and that animated me but he never loved me, that is why I can never be... real. I am not whole-"

"Don't say that Sherlock-"

"But I'm not, I have lived with the total realisation of that truth for 192 years, and I understand that now John. I am a freak and a monster – doomed to forever be an outcast in society. You may not see it but people naturally veer away from me, reject me for reasons that not even they understand. I repel them because they see the basic wrong of my being, I should not be alive because I was not created by God. I was made on a slab and I live without a soul, this life is my punishment, I live in Hell every day."

"You're wrong Sherlock; you do have a soul-"

"No, John. A soul comes from love, love between a man and woman or simply the physical act of love to create that child, no being can be created without those and have a soul. I am artificial, I was not loved and I do not love, but I live in hope that when I do then perhaps that spark in me will develop further, make me a true man. It's all I have ever wanted, but every time I have come close that love had been snatched out from under me and I never had the chance to be whole. So here I am, as lacking in affection as I am in a soul."

"No matter what you say Sherlock, I don't believe that you have no soul. I will not believe that you are a monster because I know that you are good beneath it all. Despite what you tell yourself, you're a good man."

"I would reserve judgement until you know my whole story." I froze, worried again, about what I was about to hear next,

"Fine, you won't change that opinion, but carry on, I want to know more."

"When I was born, I was alone. I gained consciousness for the first time ever and suddenly I was alive. It frightened me at first, to suddenly be blinking in the harsh light and cold of his lab, to be a fully grown adult with nothing… no memories, no words, no thoughts, and no-one to turn to. It is a feeling that I doubt anyone else can possibly understand. I was hungry and thirsty but I couldn't understand those feelings, I didn't even recognise water or food as the things that could relieve those feelings. I barely remember that first day – it was a haze to me. I remember being thrust out of the membrane that served as my womb and into the coldness of the world and I remember leaping with joy as I gained clumsy control of my limbs, and it felt... amazing.

"Imagine it John, being a just born and completely new to the world, having never seen grass or sunlight, never heard birds sing, and having all of the mobility of a full grown man. When I first began to run, it was as if I was flying. I will never forget my day of firsts, it was the most breath-taking day, I have never felt so blissful as I did then. It's all I really remember from that day, that feeling of euphoria... but then I remember him. Dark haired, and horrified by my very appearance. I didn't understand the look on his face, but now I recognise it as what is was... loathing, regret, fear, confusion that I was moving around and thinking. He thought bringing me to life would mean I just lay breathing — with nothing to show for my life but a heartbeat. He never expected me to jump or run towards him, so he screamed at me to stay back. I reached out to him, as any new born would its father, the only person it had ever seen or known, desperate for love and attention and help. Imprinting so to speak. But he turned his back."

"Sherlock, I'm so s-"

"Don't apologise. He left me there, not you. But, after that, I ran away – even though I was wearing nothing but a cloak and knew nothing of the world. He abandoned what was essentially a helpless, vulnerable child to a world that would loathe and fear it, leaving it to die. If I had not learnt quickly I probably would have been killed, if I had been capable of dying so easily. As it was I was extremely robust, my body works very differently because it's just a machine, but he did not know that at the time. For all he knew I could have starved or died of thirst or cold or exhaustion! I was pathetic and alone; I couldn't speak, barely understood words and I had no guide, nor guardian.

"On my first day, I stumbled on a crowd of men harassing a woman – I stopped the attack but she ran away from me upon seeing my face. The people of the village threw things at me, things which exploded and burnt me; I was like a terrified child, running from them and feeling pain for the first time, crying out but never having the relief of tears because that is a human ability. It was the first time I ever felt pain and humiliation and they tasted so very bitter. They left an aftertaste for almost my entire life, but whenever I came close to forgetting and moving on... someone else saw me, hated me in an instant, and shoved those feelings back down my throat.

"That night was not the last time that I would experience such cruelty, not even close. That very same night I was beaten by two men for frightening them by mistake, for stealing their food because it smelt so good and my stomach pained me. This spark in my body thinks it is human – it thinks that I must sleep and eat and drink but my body is dead, it does not need it. However, I welcomed the food and then I heard music. This was before I played violin, I'd never heard music before so to hear him playing guitar was like being called by a siren, summoning me to his house. I suppose that guitar is the reason why I took up violin, another string instrument, I wanted to remind myself of my first friend."

I mirrored his smile, as he thought of happier times, of the first man to show him kindness in an otherwise cruel and lonely world, but that look dropped from his face far too quickly,

"At the time this was happening, I was living rough – in a forest or in the streets of the nearby city. I was cold and uncomfortable, impossibly lonely for most of the night, but during the day his son would work in the fields with his wife and I could go to his home. Slowly, he tutored me in a hitherto unknown world and cared for me, making me a part of his family. He taught me to speak and to read and write, granted it was difficult and sloppy at first but soon I could recite, I could speak sentences and understand, I danced in my first snowfall and mastered reciting Paradise Lost. I even began to read my father's notes. He wanted-"

His voice broke, in a way that was so very uncharacteristic of him and all the more heart-breaking because it was so new to him. If Sherlock was breaking down, it must have been traumatic, he almost looked on the verge of tears, "the old man wanted me to meet his family, and he promised that they would accept me. I was afraid, I knew they would react in the way that the people in the village had but he assured me, promised me that they would be kind to me. He forced me to stay and I trusted him-" I tried to get him to look me in the eye but suddenly a spot on the floor seemed to be the most fascinating thing in the world, "if he hadn't insisted-"

"Sherlock, what happened?" He chuckled, a hint of hysteria creeping into his throat,

"What do you think happened, John? You saw that picture of me, that man in the cage- how do you think they reacted to the monster that was so close to their vulnerable father? If men react poorly to me now when they merely sense that I am wrong, how do you think they reacted when they saw it written across my face and my body? They chased me away, they screamed and shouted at me, accused me of trying to hurt the old man. I would never have done such a thing, I was good and kind and innocent, but they made me angry. I didn't know what I was doing. And in my pain I- I-"

"You did just that, you hurt him." He nodded, dropping his hand into his hands, his voice muffled as he continued,

"I didn't know they were in there, I promise you. I just wanted them to come home to find their house burnt down, for them to understand what it was like to have nothing so they could understand how I felt every day on my own. I didn't mean... I didn't want- it killed them, all three of them and her unborn child. I had become a murderer but I didn't understand the gravity of the situation, I couldn't recognise death. But now I know that I murdered them."

I stared at him in shock, not even able to speak as I tried to process his admission, "that isn't the worst thing I've ever done, John. You can leave now if you want, you don't have to listen to my other misdeeds-" I took a seat beside him on the sofa, trying to absorb everything he was saying quickly so I could just be there for him,

"I'm not going anywhere. Sherlock, you suffered a terrible life and you were hurt. It was an accident. I know it gets worse, I understand why you did it and I don't hate you for it. I feel sorry for you, to have to carry such a burden of guilt for something you did so many years ago because you lashed out in anger. You were young and alone and angry at the world, you thought you had been abandoned and rejected—lied to even—by your only friend and you were too young to understand those feelings, so you attacked him and tried to push them away."

"It's still not my worse action."

"What is then?"

"I'll get there in a minute. Just let me… just let me get there in my own time-"

He trailed off, trying to swallow past the lump which must have been building in his throat. I couldn't help it; I reached out and took his hand, silently assuring him that I was there and that I had no intention of being anywhere else. I expected him to push me away, to shake my hand off, but he didn't. He didn't acknowledge my hand but, to my great surprise, he seemed to be comforted by it, because he continued his story,

"I wanted to know where I came from and I had lost my only friend, and I wanted to not be alone any more. So I went looking for the creator that abandoned me and found him in Geneva, at the Frankenstein Estate. At first it was just about knowing the truth, then it was about trying to get his acceptance and the love he had denied me from the start, and then—when that failed—I just wanted a friend or a mate, to make me feel less lonely and to end my starvation for affection and fill the void left by my friend. I made attempts to approach Victor a few times but always ran away before he saw me, terrified of rejection. For the months he was back in his family home, he mostly refused to leave the house. He was terrified that I was out there, that someone would know what he had done.

"I knew he would not come for just anything, and that he would not look upon me ever again if his situation was not dire, if I didn't force him. So, I snatched his little brother William. I had hoped of taking him away for a few hours, to frighten Victor and lure him out to speak to me. But before I could snatch him, I made the mistake of speaking to the little boy, I thought for a second he would be my friend and that he would climb the mountains and play with me, but he panicked. I snatched him and took him up into the mountains, but he just kept crying and screaming. Eventually, he managed to get out of my grasp and tried to run away. I caught him, by the neck... I didn't realise how tight I was holding him-" I gripped his hand tighter, trying to anchor him in the present and prevent him from getting lost in his past, "I- I got Victor's attention. Whilst the others grieved, Victor came and confronted me. It was then that he began to truly see what he had created. He saw me only as an experiment, just as I see people as merely cases and not humans – I learnt how to disconnect people from humanity and myself from emotion from the master. He merely saw my sutures healing, my ability to walk and my fine motor skills, not my pain or my loneliness of my desperation for him to see me as his child, not his creature.

"So, I told him how lonely I was and begged him for another of my kind, I begged him as a child pleads with its father for a friend and for love. But he felt no love for me; I was only ever an experiment to him. He didn't care about my feelings, my isolation; he merely wanted acclaim and knowledge. I requested a companion—I threatened and bribed him—and finally I tricked him. I convinced him that he would become famous, and that people would revere him if he created a newer, more improved version of me. He had no humanity to appeal to so I pandered to his arrogance, it got results. He consented, promised to make another over a handshake—he taught me how to make a bargain—before we parted ways for a brief while. He promised me a bride and I followed him to a small island off the coast of Scotland, to keep a watchful eye over the process. To make sure he made good of his promise."

I felt a slight sink in my heart at that, that he wanted a woman once—that he could love, but not a man... not me—but I didn't let it show, as I asked,

"A wife? As in, he would make another one of you? Another of your kind? Did he keep his promise?" He smiled, lost in thought, in the haze of a young man who had experienced his first love, who had caught the soft fragrance of the girl he had loved, who was perfection in his eyes,

"Oh yes, and she was beautiful; whilst I was a horrible, scarred creature built in the Devil's own shadow—the flawed prototype of his race, to be improved upon—she was as pure and as snowy white as an angel. She was born from our God's light, Victor's light and not the darkness of his genius. She was by far the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. So beautiful that I feel to my knees at her feet and promised to love her from then until eternity, to protect her and take her away with me – to take us both away from the judgemental eyes of man, where we could thrive and live alone. I would have done anything for her."

"What happened? Could he not bring her to life as he had you?"

Suddenly, the hand was wrenched from mine and Sherlock had leapt to his feet, pacing out of control, raging and snarling at the memories, thrusting his eyes to the Heaven's and his father, as if speaking to the man who had betrayed him,

"What happened? The months he spent alone, doing his 'terrible work' was enough to drive him mad, he began to hallucinate and to regret his decision to help me. He broke his promise, he created her and allowed me to love her—to have my first glimpse of hope—and then he snatched away the only light in my life. He tore her apart and listened to my howls of pain and revenge without remorse. And why? Because he was jealous. Jealous that I loved someone when I wasn't a real man and he couldn't even find it in him to love his own fiancée. Why should I have those feelings when he couldn't?

"After that, I fled but I vowed to make him suffer, to make him feel the same pain that I did," I felt my stomach drop in sympathy for him and fear at what he was going to say next, "and I did. I waited until he had his own bride, his cousin Elizabeth, and I-" He faltered all of a sudden, his anger giving way to horror at his actions and his head falling forward, his neck forming a glorious arch through his dark curls, as he confessed, "I- John, believe me when I say that I have never been so ashamed or guilty. I did not know the pain it would cause her, I did not realise. I wanted to hurt him, to force him to feel my pain, to make him know that I had taken her from him in such a simple way, and I wanted to feel like a man, because men were not virgins, men were not foul creatures. Men could lay with their wives, a privilege denied to me by my father... but in doing so I hurt her. I hurt her more than I realised I would because I didn't know. I only wanted to hurt him, I did not realise it would hurt her in the process– I wanted him to be jealous, I wanted to take his wife from him as he had taken mine. If I claimed her innocence before him then she would be mine... but it hurt her, and I hated myself for doing that, for being so lost in the haze that I deliberately caused her pain. So I killed her, I broke her when I realised what I had done, so that I could spare her the future pain of living with what I had done... and I ran away. He could not even find it in himself to kill me. I wish he had."

I couldn't help it, even despite everything he told me—and knowing that I should have been disgusted or frightened—I felt only sympathy for the broken creature before me and a swelling of love in my chest as he began to sob. Suddenly, I was launching myself into his frantic path and stopping him from pacing, wrapping my arms around him as his knees gave in and he released tears that had been held back for so long.

We collapsed at the same time, both of our knees giving out and sending us tumbling to the floor. Sherlock pressed his sodden face into my neck and cried in earnest, clutching at the front of my increasingly damp jumper. I wrapped my arms around him tight, pulling close and gently rocking his trembling body, barely able to keep my own tears back as he clutched at me. For that long hour, when time stretched out and Sherlock finally gave in to his emotions and opened up to me for the first time, he was no longer Sherlock Holmes - the brilliant, cold, scientific detective. He was simply a frightened child begging for forgiveness and for sympathy in a world which had been dry of both for so long. It was as if had reverted back to the start, to the innocent, meek and vulnerable creature that had first woken.

But there was a difference. Professor Victor Frankenstein saw him, saw what he had created, and he ran.

I would never leave him.


	32. 2010 - The Tears that finally fall

**2010 - Tears that finally fall**

John POV

We remained on the floor for hours, his shivering body wrapped in my own trembling arms, until finally the tears subsided. Behind us, the sun began to rise though the windows and bring the morning into the flat. Over the hours that we had sat in silence, I was grateful for the chance to process everything, all of my thoughts and my realisations that Sherlock was more different than I'd first though. Even the knowledge that he'd done terrible things seemed to slot into position and begin to make sense, so I could accept them and forgive him. I didn't feel the same way about him as I did before—not by a long stretch—because everything had changed, but I loved him just as much. In fact, I think I loved even more because now I knew the whole truth about him. I knew his past and his present, I knew it all and I realised that now I loved the real Sherlock.

I could see that he wasn't above us, stood on a podium and never understanding the emotions of the people below. It just happened that his emotions we different to mine, or anybody else's... they were deeper and darker. His feelings were raw and tempered, they hurt him more and they had been wild in his youth. He had had to push them down because otherwise, if he didn't, he would lash out and hurt people. Over time he had had to accept that and he had learnt to put an iron grip on his emotions, so as to stop the people around him from being hurt. He'd lost the ability to open himself up to others because he was terrified that he would hurt them if he did. He really was a good man, a better man than anyone knew.

Finally, he pulled back from my grasp and a look of total shock fell over his face, as he seemed to realise something. His trembling hands reached up slowly and gently touched his sodden face, the tears had only truly started since I had pressed him tight against my chest and refused to let go. I was certain he had been able to feel my heart beating against his cheek, beating faster with the power of the feelings I had realised that I had for him. His brow furrowed as if he was trying to solve a particularly tricky case,

"I don't- I don't understand." I pushed a lock of dark hair from his face to look at him more closely. He was holding the sparkling tear on the end of his finger up for me to see, mumbling, "John, am I crying? Are these tears?" I laughed slightly,

"Well yeah, haven't you ever-" I stopped, realising what he meant and feeling utterly shocked, despite the fact nothing should shock me now, "you haven't, have you? You've never cried."

That fact, for some reason, was heart-breaking. To have felt so much pain and emotion and had to bottle it up for so long, to be unable to just release it and cry. We take advantage of our tears; there is nothing so cathartic or soul-baring as being able to cry, to be able to let your emotions bubble up because they just cannot be held in for a second longer, before they pour out from our souls. To be unable to cry is to be unable to truly feel it or process it, to let it go. No wonder he had appeared robotic and unmoved by suffering, he had no outlet. He'd been trapped within his own barely functioning body, forcing feelings down because his body physically could not cope with them,

"My body's never been capable. I just don't understand it; I've documented everything about my body for the past two hundred years, every day I would check the cell biology. I kept diagrams, keep precise notes and data. Up until a few weeks ago, the cell biology and chemistry had not changed but remained different from the rest of humanity, but recently? My body has been changing so much of late that I can see the changes every day. That same thing that's inside me, keeping me alive, has been rejuvenating my cells for years, healing my scars and slowly bringing me to true life... but it's never... I'm close, I know it now. I'm so impossibly close to being biologically normal; I know that now, because I've never been able to cry or feel pain like I did last night, when I was stabbed."

"Perhaps it's because- no, forget it, it's stupid-"

"Nothing you ever say is stupid, John."

"Thank you, that's surprisingly nice of you to say."

"That doesn't mean that everything you say is intelligent, however."

"And there's my Sherlock. But, what I think is... well to cry true tears, perhaps you just needed to feel true remorse and guilt, to be able to connect to them in your heart, in your soul. I've seen it in numb, almost remorseless, soldiers coming back from wars, having had to shoot people. Suddenly, it clicks and they feel like their emotions control them, like guilt and remorse take over them and they cry these tears, the same tears you have in your eyes. Those tears are the markings of true loathing for what they have done, true guilt-"

"I've never felt those feelings before, John, not as truly or as deeply as you've described. I push my feelings away for a reason. They make me vulnerable; they make me weak to the memories. That's why I only ever see crime scenes objectively, why I do not see the suffering because if I did… I'd also see the suffering that I caused. I cannot be reminded of that, it would be too difficult, so I have pushed my feelings away for so long and now? Now, I don't feel the emotions anymore. Perhaps, I've never truly felt my emotions, I fall in love and into rage and into despair so quickly, perhaps they weren't real. And now I have mastered my mind, they are gone. I am a sociopath, John, because I don't have a soul-"

"Then perhaps you're gaining one."

"What? You think-?" His brow furrowed thoughtfully, "I suppose that I did say that I would gain one when-" He faltered, looking at me with wide eyes,

"When what?" He shook his head,

"I don't- no, no, it's nothing. It's just that this cell change, this difference... this growth of my emotions—and apparently my soul—has only happened in the past few months, at about the time when you moved in. I just wonder... no, it can't be-"

"It can't be what, Sherlock? You're not making any sense!"

"I don't want to talk about it." I wanted to push, but I couldn't, not now. He was too fragile, too unlike his hard inhuman self, I felt like I would shatter him if I pushed too hard. So I just sighed,

"Why don't you sit down, you need the rest, and tell me the rest of your story?" He nodded, easing himself to his feet. He was avoiding my gaze once more, as he gently lowered himself into his armchair. He winced and clutched at his side, I made a mental note to check the stab wound later - although it probably wouldn't kill him since he seemed to be indestructible, and I understand exactly why now,

"After what I had done to Elizabeth, Victor pursued me. He promised to chase me to the ends of the Earth, if he had to, and to shoot me through the heart he should never have allowed to beat. He had passed up a chance to kill me once before, on the night I killed Elizabeth, and he would not make that mistake again. It was during his pursuit that I realised my endurance for the cold, and for lack of food and sleep, I saw him waning but I remained strong. He chased me as far north as we could go and then he fell and never climbed to his feet again. I always expected him to stand but... well he didn't, he wasn't like me. He couldn't come back from the dead, he simply stayed there and remains on that spot to this day. I guarded him for many years until I decided that I had to return to society. It was a few years later that that picture was taken, I tried to be a part of society, to become human and make up for my misdeeds, but they locked me in a cage."

He scoffed, shaking his head slightly, as he asked bitterly, "have you ever been whipped before, John?"

"Oh God-"

"Yes, it was the single most excruciating experience of my life, even with my tolerance of pain... until the next day when he took me out of my cage again, tied me to the whipping post once more—with my injuries still bleeding—and added more over the top. He repeated the process every single day. Can you imagine what it feels like to be whipped every day for two years?" I shook my head; it seemed too horrific to accurately imagine, "do you remember how it felt when you were shot?" I nodded, and croaked out,

"I don't think I could ever forget." He nodded,

"How did that feel?"

"Like burning, I have never felt so much pain at once; I felt like I was being stabbed in the shoulder with a knife that had been taken out of a fire."

"That's how it felt when I was whipped, except now imagine that single bullet not embedding itself just in your shoulder but instead being dragged across your back, just as quickly. It felt like I was being burnt from the inside out, like I was being doused in petrol and consumed by their hatred every day and, as you saw, I still bear those scars. When I was shot a few years later, the pain was nothing in comparison."

"Where did you fight?"

"The Somme." I stared at him,

"Seriously?"

"What sort of question is that? Of course seriously, why would I joke about something like that?" I muttered an apology before he carried on, "a horrible horse faced woman went to the recruitment office and turned me in, I was forced to join the army. It was possibly the best thing that anyone could have done for me because I found companions there, I learnt how to be around people and I was accepted – if only for a while - and appreciated after I left. It was where I found my name, I took it from one of my friends who died. Rufus Sherlock. I searched for a name for all those years, and in the end I took it from an ordinary man who had done something extraordinary. He became my friend, he shared his dying moments with me."

His hands reached up, clapping into that prayer-like position in front of his mouth, as his gaze dropped into his lap, anger lighting the moonstone irises and bitterness filling his voice,

"Every single one of my friends died that day and yet I survived, even with ten bullets in me. It wasn't fair, John, for any of them to die when I did not. I have never understood it. Why did I live when I had no one to live for and I had done nothing but hurt people in my life? There were men at my side who had wives and sweethearts, children begging for God to bring their fathers – their heroes - home and infants who wouldn't even remember the faces of men dead before they could speak. Yet I stood there, a murderer and a monster with bullets literally piercing me, barely feeling it and knowing that that made me even more of a freak than the scars and my appearance. I had no-one waiting for me or depending on me and yet God let me live. How is that fair?"

"He gave you a chance. He knew one day you would do good, that you do it every day by solving cases and helping people, so he let you live. He allowed you to suffer all your life, to burden yourself with all that suffering, I think it's only fair that he did one good thing. He let you live so that one day you could redeem yourself and find happiness. You deserved to live, Sherlock, and you deserve to be happy and loved now."

His eyes locked onto mine, looking like they'd heard that same thing a thousand time, cocking his head to the side slightly,

"You're so like her, John, she said the same things to me so many times."

"Who? Your bride?" He chuckled,

"No, no... this woman was never_ my_ bride. No, my bride never got the chance to speak, she was dead before she could live. No, you remind me of Elizabeth – the second Elizabeth I knew, I could hardly expect the first to show me kindness after what I did – who was the child of Victor's younger brother, Ernest. She befriended me in the freak show I was being kept in, and she was the one who set me free. She killed the man who owned me and we ran away together, but I could never give her what she would need in the future. I wanted her to have stability, children, marriage and a home, even if it meant someone else had to be the one to give it to her." My heart went out to him, it had been such a selfless thing for him to do and he seemed to not even realise that, "and in the end it was for nothing. She had a baby, nine months after we separated... he was my child."

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry-"

"I never knew him, I was a fool for leaving and she was a coward for never telling me about him until it was too late. He's long dead now, I never had the chance to make amends with him, to get to know him. All I know about my child was that he was called Edward and his granddaughter was called Madeleine. She was the one who showed me the letter which destroyed me, that told me the truth about Edward. I was devastated, I had left my child and my love, the woman who should have been my wife, because I thought that I could not have a child. I gave her the one thing I thought was impossible and I never even knew, it's ironic."

He paused, looking nostalgic and quite sad, "I still think of her sometimes, even though the love has faded. I will always love her but there's resentment when I think of her now. She could have been the one who I spent the end of my days with, I could have had a soul and grown old with her and our a family but she took that away from me. She betrayed me by keeping our son's paternity secret, just as truly as I betrayed her by leaving. She hoped after that I would eventually find someone else, she left me a letter saying that one day someone else would love me, since it was too late for us," _they do Sherlock, even though you don't realise it, _"and that their love would-" He stopped and a look of wild realisation, the same look that possessed him when he solved a case, flittered across his eyes, "oh!"

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" He looked up at me, eyes wide in surprise... oh God, he does realise it. Or at least he does now,

"That's why I'm changing, why I'm gaining my soul and why that spark in me is growing. Somebody loves me; I'm loved again, John, and in a way that Elizabeth couldn't love me."

"Well of course you are; your brother loves you, Mrs Hudson loves you and I love you, you're my best friend-"

"No, John; the love of a friend, of a housekeeper or of a sibling isn't enough – it never was. It's not enough to make my heart pound and my soul grow inside me, to light up with emotion, to make me feel alive... only true, romantic love can do that. A heart beating for mine and making me beat for it in return." I could feel the flush rising in my cheeks but I remained stoic, "and I have to feel it too. That's the most important thing; if I don't feel it then I cannot gain a soul. To have a soul you need emotion, so I must be in love as well. I must be- oh. Oh! John, I understand!" I chuckled nervously, as he jumped to his feet with just a momentary wince,

"Do you Sherlock? Who are you in love with then?"

"I can't say yet. I know I'm in love but I don't know with whom; I don't understand the feelings, I never quite got a handle on emotions. I can't tell which are love and so I cannot know who I am in love with yet."

"Oh," I felt my heart plummet slightly, "well, tell me when you find out, anyway."

"I will, oh this is splendid! I'll be whole in no time! I might have loved her quite strongly but I also knew it couldn't last, unlike now. But some... well I won't say good, not anymore anyway, came from that time... for one thing, Mycroft wouldn't be here if it weren't for our affair."

"Wait, what the Hell? I thought you said Edward was your son… now Mycroft's your son as well?" He gave me that 'don't-do-an-Anderson-on-me' look and scoffed,

"Definitely not, it's a more distant relationship than that, at least by blood. Madeleine was his mother, his father had abandoned her and she died on the day that he was born," I felt an odd rise of pity for the British Government then, at the thought that he had lost his mother and his father had wanted nothing to do with me. "She couldn't have her parents know of the pregnancy, they would have forced her to have an abortion, so we concocted a plan and I took her away, after she died I was given guardianship of the baby and left to care for Mycroft."

"You looked after Mycroft?" God that was a weird thought, Sherlock nurturing anything was as odd as the thought of him nursing a bag of flour,

"Yes, I was quite happy to in fact. I wanted to make amends for leaving Elizabeth and our son. As a baby, I found him quite pleasant and agreeable, it was when he developed a mind he started to be trying. He was a difficult child, we fought frequently and I found him increasingly difficult to connect to, and he despised my secrecy. We were close for some years, he saw me as an older brother, but then he found out about my past… he didn't even stay for an explanation, he just walked out." Okay, all of those feelings of sympathy were gone again, "after the way that he treated me, I refused to speak him for many years - when he did at last come trying to make amends, after ignoring my attempts to contact him. But I will always remember his childhood as some of my better years… before he could talk." I chuckled at that,

"So when did you two become brothers again?"

"When I was detoxing he came to Lestrade's doorstep to find me, since I had evaded him before them, and that's when they... well, you know how they are."

"No, I really don't."

"It's a very recent development; they didn't get along at first, in fact Lestrade punched him the second time they communicated. But things have changed and Lestrade recently moved into a Mycroft's house in Kensington. I bought them a new Labrador, to replace the one Lestrade's ex-wife took in the divorce. Well I say bought a new one, to avoid the law that you shouldn't steal Labradors from ex-wives, even though they belonged to the husbands beforehand."

"Wait, so Mycroft and Lestrade are-?"

"Oh yes, it's all my doing of course. I knew they were attracted to each other when they started having coffee, which was only so that Lestrade could update Mycroft on my detox. I just gave them that extra push. It makes Lestrade far more amiable towards me and more willing to give me cases, and he can't punish or upset me too much for fear of upsetting my brother. Also, it gives Mycroft someone to focus on rather than me. So yes, I am pleased with the arrangement—it makes my life more convenient—to put it in a way the fans of your blog would understand, in case you write at least some of this up later... I ship Mystrade." I gave him a look, not quite sure I had heard that right,

"You're a nineteenth century man and you understand the term shipping?"

"I got the term from the betting pool at Scotland yard called Ship Johnlock. They've been betting on us being in a secret homosexual relationship." I spluttered in shock but he simply shrugged, "yes, it's not just the students as Bart's with a pool like that. I told them I'd keep them posted. Now, I think I'm going to take a shower and clean the blood off my side, if you have any more questions I suggest you write them down and I'll answer them when I get back."

And with that he left me in my armchair, spluttering after him,

"You'll keep them posted? What the Hell does that mean, Sherlock? Sherlock!"


	33. 2010 - Bare before their judgement

**2010 - Bare before their judgement**

**Sherlock POV**

Shivering slightly, I peeled the drenched coat away from my skin and flopped on to the sofa, shifting uncomfortably in my soaked clothing and rolling over to face the wall, my back to the apartment. My shoes were full of so much dirty water that every time I moved they let out a large squelch. I was already drifting off to sleep, having solved the case and not having slept through the whole thing, when I was vaguely aware of John brushing past. Instinctively he dropped a blanket over me, whilst sipping his tea and placing mine on the side table, ready for when I wanted it, always taking care of me without having to be asked,

"What's this for?" He raised an eyebrow,

"You're my patient and I'm concerned about your health, having just fished you out of the Thames." I shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around me,

"I was following a suspect-"

"Who didn't jump into the Thames with you-"

"My legs got away from me."

"Yes, well it may result in you having hypo- actually, wait no, knowing you… you probably wouldn't get hypothermia after a whole day spent in a meat locker-"

"Of course I wouldn't, I lived in the Arctic Circle for almost thirty years; a little splash of cold water is very unlikely to finish me off."

"Well, you know as well as I do that you're more human now than you were then, and far more susceptible to the cold. But, I see your point. Still, it cannot be comfortable sitting around in a sopping wet suit."

I squirmed slightly and noticed a faint blush creeping up his neck and pooling in his cheeks, "if you... if you take off your shirt now I can put it in the wash and it'll be more comfortable later." I sighed, sitting up and removing it quickly, since he had already seen most of my scars,

"Fine, alright but I'm only doing this because it's hard to sleep in a freezing cold second skin, not out of any misplaced concern for my health." I thrust the sopping wet material at him before wrapping the scratchy woollen blanket—one he had most likely brought back from Afghanistan judging by the rough, poor quality—tighter over my scars.

For a second he just stood there, and then he coughed slightly in the back of his throat to clear it and turned, looking flustered,

"Well, I'll go see if you've got anything else to put on and keep you warm, I'll be back in a minute." I didn't reply; I simply went back to trying to take a 'cat-nap' as he referred to my short bursts of sleep after cases. I was so deeply asleep a few minutes later that I didn't hear half of Scotland Yard's Homicide Department bursting in until they were already stood just inside the doorway, Mrs Hudson screeching behind them that they needed a warrant – yes, I had versed her on her rights after the first 'drug bust' – until I said calmly,

"It's fine, Mrs Hudson," I rolled over into a sitting position, pressing my hands together over my lips and raising an eyebrow, "I'm sure they have a perfectly good explanation for this-" Lestrade pushed through the group to address me,

"I didn't want to burst in like this, Sherlock-"

"That doesn't stop you doing so every couple of months, however, does it?"

"Sometimes it's necessary. If you would just cooperate!"

"I do not work like that, Lestrade, and you know it; you either get my full findings or none of them, bullying me won't get me to reveal any more information. If anything it will merely antagonise me further and I'll go to even greater extremes to prevent you from getting my deductions until a later date, as punishment." I spotted John in the corner, emerging from the bedroom with a clean set of clothes. He looked at the crowd from over the small pile and frowned,

"Hey, what's going on here? This cannot be another drugs bust, I check him every month, he's cleaner than Mrs Hudson-"

"John, they're for my hip! Are you suggesting that-?"

"Of course not Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock doesn't take anything! Not even paracetamol when he has a headache and I know that he hasn't taken anything else in years-"

"No, John, this is not a drugs bust. Or at least, it won't be now. They were simply trying to force me to tell them some information prematurely but since they will be getting none of it, they were just leaving."

I climbed to my feet, intending to cross to the kitchen with my blanket wrapped around me and my dignity intact, when a hand shot out and blocked my pathway, Donovan hissing at me,

"Hey, we're not leaving without anything, Freak." Lestrade gave her a warning look, but she just ignored him. I went to walk away again but a foot landed on the corner of my sheet. In an instant, the blanket was yanked out of my grasp and I was naked from the waist up, frozen on the spot.

Time seemed to slow to an impossible speed as the blanket pooled at my ankles and cold air enveloped my scars. I could do nothing as I listened to the simultaneous intake of air behind me, feeling every inch of me suddenly begin to burn white hot under their scrutiny. For years, I had hidden and protected my secrets - nobody but Mycroft had seen the full extent of my scars as they are now, not even John or Elizabeth or Lestrade. I had insisted on extinguishing candles and keeping the curtains shut when I was with Elizabeth, I'd kept my shirt on whilst living with Lestrade, and John had only seen the scars on my front. Even though I knew they were too stupid to do so, it felt as if they could read my whole life story on the plains of my scarred back.

Instantly, and almost automatically, I dropped my head and tried to make myself shorter and smaller, drawing in on myself but finding no way to hide myself under their scrutiny. I could feel angry tears prick the corners of my eyes but I pushed them down, I would not break down for these people. Even if I felt so embarrassed, so ashamed, by the reasons for these scars—and by what I was—that I wanted to curl into a ball and never release my tight grasp on my secrets. I felt as if slowly the world was forcing my fingers apart and easing my secrets out of my hands, one by one, and it was the most hateful experience I had ever felt.

Lestrade, unsurprisingly as their leader and bravest member, was the first to speak, stuttering his sentence out,

"Sherlock, my God! I knew there were some but- is this why you-?" I didn't move, I simply remained rooted to the spot. A survival instinct inside saying that if I stayed still they wouldn't see me; I would just blend into my surroundings. But that didn't work, more voices simply joining in with the questioning. I could feel my face heating up from shame, burning my cheeks as I tried to hide behind my sodden curls. They had seen the scars. They had seen my past. It felt like they knew; like they knew that I was a freak, that I came from a Freak-Show and a War and Victor, that—even more than they realised—I was not like them. The evidence was all there on my skin but then again I was the only one who would be able to trace the scars and find their true origins, those idiots wouldn't be unable to unweave the knotted web of lies that stretched across my back like a Spider's web, they wouldn't be able to follow the threads and read my stories. Only I would be able to do that, and I didn't need to... because I had lived that story.

When I did at last find my voice again, it was quiet and halting,

"There's a reason why I dislike the term freak. The people who gave me these scars thought nothing of using the term for me. Feel free to pry around here, you won't find anything," I passed John, taking the t-shirt out of his hands and pulling it on so quickly that my hands fumbled, I just needed to be covered and protected again, I didn't care that it had holes in it or that it was too thin for the cold night outside, I wouldn't feel the cold anyway - I would just get some funny looks, but I was used to those, "I'll be back in a few hours, John. If you need me, I'll be at the lab... maybe."

And with that, I disappeared and left the sea of shocked officers behind.

**AN. I'm very chuffed that this is now my most reviewed story and also extremely tickled that I have 221 reviews (because 221B, if you didn't get that) and will be sad when it's not that relevant number anymore. But not sad enough to ask you not to review, as I'm a bit of a feedback whore :)**


	34. 2010 - Love was blind

**AN. Just wanted to say to "crazy-about-books" that you're in luck, it is in John's POV! Hurray!**

2010 - Love was blind

John POV

I didn't look any of them in the eye; I didn't want to see the looks on their faces. They would be appalled, upset perhaps, shocked no doubt and - unfortunately and infuriatingly - maybe even pitying. But the thing which was pissing me off so much, was that Sherlock didn't deserve those looks. He deserved his privacy and certainly did not deserve pity, he should not be reduced to a victim when he is so much stronger than all of them put together. I simply crossed to where Sherlock had been sitting and took a seat, picking up his blanket as I went and ignoring them, hoping they would get the hint and leave,

"Watson, what the- was Sherlock- was he-?" I didn't look up at Anderson, I just looked at the headline, pretending to be unaffected by what had just happened,

"Scarred? Yes, yes he was." There was a chorus of muttering and Donovan spoke up, her voice halting and confused,

"Were they… those scars look like they came from a whip!" Again there was a chorus of muttering and agreement and I couldn't help the swell of anger,

"That's none of your business-!" Lestrade cut across me,

"I'll deal with this, John," he turned to face them, all of them looking for answers and expecting him to give them, instead he just said, "all of you out." I looked at him and asked quietly,

"So you knew about this?"

"I helped him out of a detox, of course I know his secrets, he told me most of them and I accepted them but... he never showed me his scars, I knew he had them but they were covered the whole time he stayed in my flat. My God, seeing them is something else entirely."

"Yes, it is."

"What do you mean his secrets? Is Sally right; are those scars from a whip?" I threw the paper down in a rustle of paper and glared Anderson and his little gang of officers, who was shuffling around by the door. I was glad when they couldn't meet my eye, and extremely pleased that they were ashamed by Sally's actions,

"I bet you were really happy with yourselves when Donovan stood on his blanket, thought it was funny to expose him like that. For you lot, that is the equivalent of stealing the chubby kid's towel when he's in the shower. You think it's hilarious to try and pick on him and snigger. You think that using fake drugs busts to rifle through his possessions and laugh at him is just a bit of harmless fun, but it's not and if you knew what he's been through in his life you'd understand why.

"You lot treat Sherlock like a pariah, say that he deserves it for how he treats you but he doesn't. He's a better person than anyone gives him credit and a stronger person than you realise. Even after all he has been through, he comes back and he helps people when other people would hate everyone, use his skills to hurt others as he has been hurt. Maybe he's not the nicest person to you but has he ever actively acted to antagonise for the sake of being cruel or petty? No, he does so to get the best work out of you all or to find out what he needs to solve cases, perhaps he doesn't have a lot of tact or social skills but I think you can see why."

Mrs Hudson turned away, a small sob escaping her mouth,

"I'm sorry you had to be exposed to that Mrs Hudson, I'm going to deal with this lot first and then I'll go get him; why don't you wait in your flat?" She nodded and disappeared before another word could be said. Lestrade chose to speak before anyone else, as soon as she was gone,

"John, how much do you know about what happened to him?"

"I refuse to talk about this with all of them present. They leave. Now."

Lestrade gave the orders without question and this time they obeyed, filing out until it was only the two of us left, Donovan was silently looking at me but, when I turned to glare back, she couldn't meet my gaze. I stopped her before she could leave, "wait, Donovan." She froze, turning to face me, "did you know-?" She gaped at me, not even letting me finish my sentence,

"About his scars? How the Hell would I-?"

"No. Did you know why it hurt him when you called him a freak?"

"No. I just assumed it was... I wanted to get back at him for all the things he says about me, and that seemed to have the most visible reaction. Or at least it did in the start, he punched Anderson for using the word but he refused to ever physically retaliate towardly me." I sighed, hardly able to believe I was about the say this but knowing it had to be said, or she would keep hurting Sherlock by calling him by that word,

"Sherlock had a grandfather who was like him, who had scars, who was kept in a freak-show." She gasped, "and that's what people called his grandfather, and eventually Sherlock because of the way he was. That show was full of people who were visibly deformed or mentally ill or just different - people like Sherlock and his great-grandfather. Anderson may have learnt his lesson after Sherlock hit him, but I still hear you using that term, most of the time when you think Sherlock can't hear you; believe me, Sherlock always hears you. Using that word makes you no better than-"

"No, I'm not like those people, in the freak-show! I don't treat people like that-"

"Don't you? Because every time I see you, with Sherlock, you're being snide and stopping him from working or talking behind his back. Why do you do that? Why do you call him a freak?"

"Because he treats us like idiots-"

"Any idiot would know that he's like that for a reason and that they should be grown up enough to ignore the insults. Or even better, take them and use them to get better at their jobs. Now get out, and if you ever say a word to Sherlock about what I just told you, or call him a freak ever again, I will find you and I will hurt you. I don't care that it's wrong to hit a woman, I'm sick of you treating him like that. Okay?" I don't think I would ever actually hit her but it made me feel a flush of satisfaction when it had the desired effect of having her nod and agree, without further comment.

I watched her skulk away before slamming the door behind her, turning to Lestrade,

"So how much do you know?"

"Everything."

"How? I've only just convinced him to tell me," I was actually a little bit hurt, that Sherlock had trusted Lestrade but not me,

"John, don't look like that, he never had any intentions of telling me. When I first met Sherlock he was homeless, living on the street, but he managed to solve the case which got me promoted. The next time I met him I was determined to help him, to get him off the drugs but, the second Mycroft came near me, Sherlock ran. He definitely didn't trust me on either of those occasions. I didn't see him for three years and I didn't want to make the same mistake, so I took him home and I helped him with his detox. By that time, even though he was different and more resistant to the drugs than normal men, he had been using for so long that the detox hit him hard. A normal man probably would have died, but instead Sherlock started to hallucinate, to look at me like..." He stopped, looking almost haunted, "as if he was seeing the ghosts of the people throughout his life, the ghosts of his regrets. And he told me his story through his hallucinations, the things he said and the way he reacted was enough to let me know everything, we didn't speak about it again after he was sober but ultimately I knew."

"I'm glad he was able to tell someone."

"No, he wasn't, he never felt able to tell me. He was forced to by those hallucinations, but you? He actually trusted you enough to tell you; he didn't even tell Mycroft, who he raised. That's what caused their rift, he never told Mycroft the truth and it lead to a massive bust up, Mycroft ran away from home and refused contact, he hated Sherlock."

"Well that explains why Sherlock hates having him around now." Lestrade nodded,

"I was angry when I heard what Mycroft did as well, he called Sherlock a monster and left him – after everything he had done – it was understandable, why he did it, but it wasn't acceptable. I punched him the first time we met."

"And now you're in a civil partnership." Lestrade spluttered,

"How did you- oh Sherlock. And we thought we'd kept it secret from him, but I guess that would explain why he stole my dog back from my ex-wife, it must have been his idea of a wedding present." We both laughed slightly, and then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "there's one thing I never understood though... a word Sherlock said."

"Go on."

"During the hallucinations, he thought he was speaking to someone called Victor-"

"Yes, his father."

"I gathered that... he said that Victor built him? What- what did he mean?"

"Well, I guess, I would have to explain that Sherlock's entire life, his birth in particular, has been part of an experiment-" He chuckled, trying to make light of the situation,

"What you mean he was some sort of Test Tube baby? Was he one of those designer babies or something? I did always wonder how he could be so bloody perfect all the time... did his parents pick and choose parts of him to make him perfect? He mentioned something about body parts but I don't really remember -"

"You have, quite unwittingly, hit the nail right on the head there."

In the next half an hour, I proceeded to tell him everything I knew about Sherlock's birth and the details of the notes on the 'specimen' and Sherlock's scars, which apparently Lestrade had only known snippets about. By the end of it Lestrade looked impossibly pale, his hand shaking around the whiskey tumbler,

"Bloody Hell; that makes a lot of sense." I nodded, refilling his drink,

"But you can see why he would be-"

"Of course I can! God, to think that Victor would just abandon him like that! I know I would never stop loving my children and I would never walk away from my kid if Mycroft and I ever adopted, no matter what-" I felt my eyebrows shoot up in surprise,

"Wow, so you guys are that serious?" He shrugged slightly, sitting back in the couch and looking thoughtful,

"I don't know, I mean we're like an old married couple but we've never really talked about having a family."

"How exactly did you guys get together? Sherlock mentioned something about coffee but I mean, no offense, but you're not exactly two people that you would expect to end up in a relationship." He chuckled, sitting back on his seat with a thoughtful expression,

"No, I suppose we're not. Well we met because Sherlock was in hospital, I had only known him for a few days but he'd just solved my case and gotten me a promotion, but he was going through really bad withdrawal. I took him to the hospital and he was furious, I later found out it was because he had been on the run from Mycroft, who tracked us there, because after Mycroft walked out on him he didn't want to ever see him again. Mycroft found us at the hospital because I gave Sherlock's real name and we sort of got on, I offered to take him into see Sherlock, who had scarpered by that point."

"Did the two of you keep in contact?"

"Me and Sherlock?"

"You and Mycroft."

"God no, I was pissed off that he was the reason Sherlock was gone. I searched for Sherlock for years and Mycroft didn't try to make contact, I barely even thought about the concerned brother. Then when I found Sherlock again, when he was detoxing, and Mycroft came to my flat to try and see Sherlock. I punched him but he gave me his card, somehow I got sucked in. We started to meet regularly for coffee because I was the only channel through which he could find out about Sherlock's life. Eventually I couldn't stand living with Sherlock anymore, I mean you're an absolute saint for putting up with everything that you do, and he moved out. Mycroft and I started meeting less and less because I had no updates for him But we both realised that we missed it, that the chats had been the highlight of our weeks and, after my divorce, we started having dinner."

"In my experience, love is unlikely and unexpected, that's what makes it so amazing."

"Did Sherlock never try to stop it?" I think I knew the answer to that, Sherlock had already told me that their getting along was convenient to him,

"No, actually he used to tell me things to update Mycroft on. At first I thought it was just that he still cared about the man he had raised from a baby and didn't want him to worry, then I realised he actually wanted us meeting up."

"With the intentions of romance?"

"I think so. Mycroft had never been with another man until that point, although apparently Sherlock was the one to tell him that there was nothing to be ashamed of years before and I'd only had brief flings in the past with guys. He just sussed us both out and figured that we should meet, partially for his own agenda. Apparently, Sherlock has always had the ability to figure out your deepest thoughts and feelings and it makes him good at matchmaking because he can find two people with shared goals in life. So he matched us up, to keep Mycroft happy. I think he's just an old romantic at heart isn't he?"

I couldn't help a tiny smile flicking up the corners of my lips as I thought about him,

"Yeah, I suppose he is; even though life's never given him reason to be. Mike Stamford – my friend from the hospital, who introduced us – said he always was a bit hopeful on the romance front. It's sad to see that he's lost that, that it never got him where it should have. I just wish-" I trailed off, not really able to finish that sentence and Lestrade gave me a knowing look,

"John, how long have you been in love with Sherlock?"

"I'm not- no, no- I'm really-"

"Yes, you really are and that's fine. Does he know that you love him?"

"No, I haven't said anything. How can I? I just keep thinking... oh I don't know what I'm thinking. Sometimes he seems like he could share my feelings and then he's back to not understanding love, I mean he's felt it before but it's been so long. He's forgotten what it is to be loved and to love someone back, he'd said as much. But then, saying that, the other night he said he was in love…" I shrugged, exhausted from just thinking about the whole situation,

"I'm so sorry, John. Who did he say he was in love with?"

"Well, that's the thing! He doesn't even know himself, he knows he has feelings which remind him of his lover from about a century ago but he's been detached from his emotions for so long he can't figure out where their coming from or where they're going. I guess... I don't really know what to do."

"You wait, if he loves you back, he's an intelligent bloke so he'll figure it out in time. If not then you'll know it's not to be and you can take it from there."

"Well, if it is for someone else then I'll just have to accept it. Sherlock deserves love, he deserves what he was denied from the beginning because of his appearance and I want him to be happy, even if it's someone else who makes him happy."


	35. 2010 - A bottle of whiskey

**2010 - A bottle of whiskey**

**John POV**

We sat in silence, both swallowing mouthful after mouthful of whiskey, as we waited for Sherlock to come back.

He didn't.

A minute stretched into an hour and an hour stretched into two, Mrs Hudson came and went with a tray of tea and biscuits – still looking shaken by the events of the evening – and, between us both, we managed to finish the bottle of whiskey. The last of the already dim light outside the window and the quiet conversation between us was long gone by the time Lestrade finally said what was on both of our minds,

"Sherlock should have been back by now." I frowned at the clock, midnight it told me,

"Do you think something's happened to him?"

"From what you've told me, anything could happen to Sherlock and he'd still walk through that door without needing to worry too much about his health."

"That doesn't mean I'm not worried about it for him."

"I could ring Donovan, get a search party set up-"

"No offense Greg but that sounds like the worst thing we could do at the moment; Sherlock won't want to see them at the moment, I can promise you that."

"Well, what do you propose we do?"

"Call Mycroft, he has CCTV trained on Sherlock most of the time-"

"Seriously? I always thought he was joking about that."

"They have an odd relationship those two. But then, lots of young relatives have to go looking for their lost grandparents nowadays, so I suppose it's not so unfamiliar a situation if you think about it. If anything, it's unusual for someone his age to also have his whole mental faculties intact... I may never get used to the idea that Sherlock is Mycroft's great – I don't know how many greats in fact - grandfather." He snorted slightly,

"Join the club; I'm still getting over the fact that it's his 194th birthday sometime soon."

Lestrade excused himself to make the phone call and I went off looking for a dry set of clothes, a warm blanket and a map, sending a text asking Sherlock where he was. Unsurprisingly, I received no reply – clearly he was hiding from us – and none of the other ten received an answer either. Lestrade came back with far more progress than me,

"Mycroft couldn't come to the phone but his assistant said that Sherlock was last seen heading towards Tower Bridge." We both stopped as we realised what he'd just said; we were running out of the door seconds later, Mrs Hudson calling after us,

"John? Where are you going? It's pouring with rain, you need a jacket!"

"Not now, Mrs Hudson!" Lestrade's police car was, mercifully, parked up next to the house and – with sirens blaring and tyres screeching – we flew off down the road in search of our lost friend.

Every second of that ten-minute drive was taken up by praying to God that he hadn't done something stupid, that he would be sat on a bench or in a café just thinking, just overwhelmed but not being a danger to himself. If Lestrade noticed my fingers crossed at my side or the waiver and crack in my voice as I begged him to go faster, to break the speed limit just a little bit more, he didn't say.

I couldn't help but picture us reaching the bridge to see him plummeting towards the water, tumbling down into its freezing indigo embrace, as he just grew fed up with the suffering and the pain he'd become only too familiar with in his long life. I know he's lived through bullets, lack of food, lack of water, freezing cold and brutal beatings that no-one should survive but it just felt like this could tempt fate. Just one more life threatening event and it would all catch up on him. If he had been changing, then perhaps he had changed just enough to tip the scales of the balance between mortality and immortality and allow him to drown.

Lestrade looked at me out of the corner of his eye, pushing the accelerator down just a little bit more,

"It's going to be alright, John." I scoffed, not able to look at him as I focused straight ahead, squinting through the rain and the sea of cars which parted before us,

"How can you possibly know that? For all we know, Sherlock could be at the bottom of the Thames at this very moment, and who could blame him after all he's been through?" Lestrade shook his head, but still not able to meet my eye,

"Don't talk like that, John. We both know Sherlock's too fond of himself to jump and he's going to be fine, because he has us now. He has you and me, and Mrs Hudson and even Mycroft, he's not going to jump and lose all that."

"Is he too fond of himself though? He spent years hating what he was, hating everything about himself. I still see him looking in the mirror and grimacing, noting every imperfection and seeing every scar and its source, even though they're too faded for us to see now. I just... I don't know what I'll do. I'm can't lose him-"

"I know, John, but he's going to be alright, I promise you." I couldn't say anymore, I just nodded, dropping my eyes down to my hands, which were resting in my lap.

Finally, to my great relief, he skidded to a half beside Tower Bridge and, before he could even fully stop the car, I had thrown the seatbelt off and leapt out. I barely even noticed the chill of the heavy rain or the clash of thunder above me. I couldn't see anyone on the footpath, the rain was so heavy that I could barely see a few metres ahead of me and the roar of thunder tore the sound of Sherlock's name from my lips before it could be heard. I only just heard the muffled sound of Lestrade cursing beside me,

"We've lost him. God knows where he could be now!" I ignored him, jolting forwards and running across the bridge, screaming out his name in a last ditch attempt to try and find him on the bridge.

God seemed to be on my side, just this once, because as I was nearing the other end of the bridge I spotted a dark figure huddled up on the concrete edge down below the bridge, his feet dangling just a few inches from the ever-rising water. I barely noticed the cars on the bridge around me skidding to a halt, their horns blaring, as I jumped the barrier and raced across the – thankfully not too busy – road and down the steps on the other side. He was sat on the concrete ledge where boats pulled up and moored themselves, but he was alone tonight, the boats all tethered somewhere safer to shield them from the rain. He hadn't been so sensible.

Despite the marginal cover provided to some of his body by the bridge, he was still getting soaked through to the skin; the thin t-shirt he was wearing looking more like a second skin than clothing – clearly he'd spent the hours before now wandering through the rain. He sniffed and coughed slightly, eyes red with unshed tears and pale hands shaking around a bottle that would no doubt contain something extremely alcoholic. I had never even seen him drink before, let alone down a whole bottle. Although the heaviness of the rain suggested that it would be diluted and mostly water now, as he swigged from it without even wrinkling his nose.

I approached slowly, careful not to startle him,

"Sherlock, what are you doing out here?" He didn't even flinch or jump in surprise, he had known I was coming no doubt,

"Nothing. Thinking." I nodded, edging closer and wrapping a hand around his arm, easing him under the cover of the bridge, out of the heavy rain, and dropping the blanket I had brought with me around his trembling shoulders,

"And what exactly is going through that genius noggin of yours?"

"I was pondering how cold the water would be... would it be so cold that - if I inched a little bit forward and allowed the currents to take me - it would burn? Would my life flash before my eyes, and show me my crimes? Would my lungs feel like they're in a vacuum, would I have to come up for air? Would I drown or would I simply wash up later and continue on, as I have for nearly two hundred years? Or would I just lie at the bottom, alone in the pitch black and the cold and the silence until the end of all time, as the world died around me-?" I couldn't listen to his calm tone anymore, couldn't bear to hear what he was saying without even a hint of emotion. So I gently muttered,

"Stop it, Sherlock."

I lowered myself to sit beside him on the ledge, noting with a small and humourless chuckle how much further my own feet were away from the water, and then saying quietly, "I don't want you to hear you speak like that ever again."

"Why shouldn't I John? Don't I have a right to contemplate what is happening with my body... what could happen if I attempted to destroy it once and for all?"

"Yes, you have that right to think about it but you're not going to act on that thought. Do you know how many people you would hurt if you acted on that contemplation?"

"I imagine there are about four; even you will admit that it is hardly a grand total for a man who has lived for twenty decades. I have made one fifth of friend every ten years," he chuckled, "I must be more sociable than I thought. You would think that all that time would make me a good person, a beloved one, and that I would improve. But no. I am still as fundamentally unlovable and disliked as ever, yet now I can't even say it is the scars that make me so, that is my face that they despise because it isn't. It's my own core, my own actions and personality that they despise so greatly."

"They don't understand you, Sherlock, nobody does-"

"You do-"

"No, I don't. You're locked up inside yourself and I care about you, because I know that in there you're a good person, but that doesn't mean I understand you. I just know a little bit more than they do and I can just about realise how you came to be this way. One day either you'll learn how to be a part of society and be accepted by then... or you'll accept yourself for who you are and know that you don't _need_ their approval. I think you're almost there anyway, and that's why I care about you so much."

"Thank you, John." I nodded,

"No problem... can you come home now, please?"

He sighed, looking down at his drink,

"That's the thing though, isn't it, John? I'm not entirely sure that I can."

"Why? Lestrade knows about you and he doesn't judge you, he never has, if that's what you're worried about." Sherlock shook his head,

"That was never a concern, I have trusted him since the moment he noticed me in that side-alley, making my home in a cardboard box. My concern is everyone else. It's never going to be the same. People _know _John. I don't care for people knowing my business, it makes me appear vulnerable and weak and it puts me at risk."

"What do you mean at risk?"

"Think about it; they'll go looking for the truth, won't they? They're the _police_, they can track down all of my records... and they'll realise that there aren't any. There are the basic records that Mycroft provided that give my identity and schooling but there are no criminal records for my drug abuse, no birth certificate, no hospital records for my scars and no travel records, no credit card accounts except for the one I set up when you moved in. There are no identity tracers which they could usually use, I have spent my entire life avoiding them and making it easy for me to do a moonlight disappearance. They'll see that something's wrong, that I seem to have hardly existed, and they'll dig."

"And what do you think they'll find exactly?" He sighed, taking another swig from the bottle and saying thoughtfully, staring at the amber liquid inside,

"Have you ever tried to go two hundred years without being noticed?"

"Well no-"

"It's increasingly difficult. You do things, you go places, and people naturally want to document everything, especially in this digital age. Everything is connected now; a Google search can show you a person's whole life. There are records of me going just as far back as I do because, whilst there may not be official documentation of my past, there are newspaper articles and letters and photographs, even a few excerpts from books, about the scarred monster. You find my university schooling and you find courses, then you find the research from Mycroft's childhood and then you may even follow that thread back to Victor's, since they are such similar pieces of work. And if you find my true name, you find that I'm a Frankenstein and you can track me to my part in the war and to the strange occurrences in the family during Victor's time, and you may even find the sketches that Victor made of me, which went into his journals in his university years and were published by his father. They may be idiots but it only takes one idiot to stumble onto a thread and then the whole thing unravels."

"Sherlock, that's not going to happen-" He looked up at Lestrade, who had quietly arrived and stood to listen as Sherlock revealed his deepest fear,

"And why the Hell not, Lestrade? I thought you had more faith in them than that-"

"It's not going to happen because I have the British Government living in my house. We've talked about your past over the years and we've been working to hide it, we put blocks on everything. Not even the Queen has clearance to read any of that information-"

"Strange that Mycroft would block himself." We all burst out laughing at Sherlock's remark and the tension seemed to fizzle away as we just chortled for a good cathartic minute, until finally Lestrade sighed and said,

"It's going to be alright Sherlock, there are blocks on everything. It would take a world class hacker to find anything."

We were silent for a second, and then Sherlock nodded – unable to form the words but the sentiment clear, he was grateful. Lestrade took a seat on Sherlock's other side, watching the water contorting and writhing a few inches below his feet, "what are you so afraid of Sherlock? Is it just that you don't want people to know the truth?" Sherlock took one final swill and handed the empty bottle to Lestrade, reaching up to push the drenched curls back off his face,

"Partially. Humans are not the most accepting of creatures, they would reject me as they did long ago. Some people of religion - who claim to be of a religion which loves and accept everyone no matter who they are - have always despised me. They once called me ungodly, an abomination. I remember the extremists coming to the freak show, rioting and shouting out for my immediate extinction, just as people would protest for a stop to many scientific research studies nowadays. If people found out the truth… I would become a topic of debate, a thing to talk about in the street, should I live or should I die?

"Or perhaps upon knowing how I was born, how long I've lived, they would lock me up in a lab and study me. Humans have always coveted immortality and eternal youth, and I hold that secret in my genes. Maybe men would come to take me away from Baker Street, so I could be prodded and poked for the rest of my life or maybe even dissected. Men are jealous and greedy, they may force me to give them secrets which are far too precious and dark for them to hold, which come with a price that no-one should pay. Victor paid that price to give me life, the crimes I committed against his family in my ignorance were an impossible expense and he should have left it alone. I suffered first but then others felt my pain because of it. I did terrible things and, if there were more people like me, I don't know what they would do. I learnt long ago that another of my kind is possible but that doesn't mean it's right."

I couldn't help but reach up and put an arm around Sherlock's shaking shoulders, gently pulling him against my side as Lestrade reached out and grasped his other shoulder, both of us gently calming him. He froze for a second, not used to the intimacy, but then relaxed and rested his sopping curls against my neck. We were an odd trio, sat there in the pouring rain in dead silence, the two of them holding their feet aloft as the water lapped had started to lap at their ankles and nearly the soles of my shoes.

Slowly, night turned in morning and we watched the pale streaks of grey splash across the sky, and the sun rise in the distance from behind the river,

"Shall we go home, Sherlock?"

"For now... yes." I didn't ask what he meant by for now... but it didn't sound too good.


	36. 2010 - Brothers

**2010 - Brothers**

**Sherlock POV**

After our showdown at the poolside, all I wanted to do was to make a cup of tea, spread liberal amounts of jam on some toast and shove both down John's throat to cheer him up. He was worryingly quiet, just staring at the wall and looking almost as pale as me, and that was not pleasant for me to see. I didn't like John being upset—why was it so upsetting? I didn't understand… why did John's anxiety make me so upset? Well… it was John, I suppose, and that was all the explanation I needed—but I couldn't do anything to comfort him. I had my own thoughts to sort through and I was hardly good at 'comforting', the last time I had done it was when I pointed out to Mycroft that he was gay, and whilst it had gone reasonably well that was only because I had spent months thinking of a way to talk to him about it. Therefore, after leaving that cup of tea and side order of toast beside him on the sofa, I collected my coat and scarf again and decided to go for a walk, ignoring the chill and just breathing in the thick scent of London.

Most people who come from wide, country expanses and clean air as I do – although I would argue that given my start in life had come during the early 1800s in rural Switzerland, living before cars and factories, I had breathed air cleaner than any that existed in the developed world – despise the smoke and dust of London. But it was a smell which reassured me like none other because when I breathed in that smell, I breathed in people, I breathed in their hustle and bustle and their machinery. It was the smell of civilised society and mankind – two things I never thought I could be a part of. And whilst I still strived for the latter, I knew that I was at least partially accepted into their society and that was more than I could ever have asked for. I was not isolated, living in the woods or hiding in the shadows anymore.

I had never felt quite so lost in London as I felt that night. I knew every street and could get anywhere without trouble but I was lost inside my own head, completely at a loss of what to do next. Tonight I had nearly died and I hadn't given a thought to my own safety. No, John had nearly died at my side. I had watched him jump onto Moriarty, to try and save me – no one had ever done anything like that for me and I almost lost him, and surely Moriarty saw the panic in my eyes and the tremble of my gun when John was wrapping his arms around Moriarty's neck, as for a second I was afraid that I was going to lose him. Almost as bad, for a second I had thought John _was_ Moriarty. It was a crushing thought; my sweet, kind, handsome—why did I say handsome? Not that he isn't but why did it seem relevant?—soldier had for a second turned against me, and my truest and most treasured ally had seemed gone. The betrayal had been more painful than the lash of the whip on my back, than all of the bullets of the war and every insult I had ever heard.

I don't know why it hurt so very much, why it felt like he was tearing at my already deformed heartstrings and making me bleed inside my chest. It just... it didn't make sense why he mattered so much. No one else had mattered so much. But that moment that I thought I had lost John had been the longest of my life, I felt like I could not go another second without him, as if my whole life was ending. I hadn't even felt like that when I had to leave Elizabeth, or when she married that other man. She hadn't been mine, I'd always known that but John? John was, we belong to each other in a way that only soul-mates could, even though it wasn't a feeling of romance—at least I didn't think it was—I knew that I loved him with every fibre of my being and it was requited. It was an entirely new feeling. Despite the cold and painful slash through my heart that I had felt at his betrayal, the warmth and the happiness that had followed when I learnt he was not Moriarty, the brief flutter of my dead but still beating heart, was euphoric.

Walking late at night, of course, is never wise. Don't worry yourselves, I wasn't mugged or abducted or abused in any form on that night. No, I simply became very aware, not long after I started walking, that a black car was trailing me. At first, I simply assumed it was Mycroft; I refused to get in of course. If he wanted to see me then he would do as he had promised a few years ago, when he had gained his umbrella – which was now battered and old but still kept as a tiny reminder that we had once been close - and he would come to me. He would not spy from afar and pick me up when it took his fancy. I did not appreciate such invasions of privacy. He had promised – and broken that promise many times – that he would come and speak to me in person.

But when the darkened windows wound down I saw the same face that I had seen just a few hours prior, grinning out at me,

"Well, Sherlock, I believe I have found something we share in common." I didn't spare Moriarty another look, I just continued walking as the car slowly inched along at my side,

"Are you going to kidnap me now? I won't go as easily as John, I'm warning you of that now." He chuckled, the window going down further to allow him to lean out slightly, chin resting on his hand as he giggled and whisper to me,

"I don't need to kidnap you... not when I have these-" I tried to ignore him, whatever he was talking about was apparently tempting enough to lure me in, so I would avoid such temptation by simply not looking him.

But eventually my will caved and I glanced, curiosity murdering the cat at last, and what I saw shocked me to the very core. The car jolted to a stop as I turned to face him, freezing on the spot as if someone had doused me in liquid Nitrogen,

"Where did you get those papers?" He grinned, gently fanning himself with the yellowing pages which I had thought were destroyed two centuries ago, apparently Victor and his father had both thought to save their parts,

"Oh these, I was given them shortly after I was born- now we both have half of the notes." I snarled, reaching to snatch them away but they were held out of my reach, as he tutted slightly,

"Oooh, impatient aren't we Sherlock?"

"Those notes belong to me; they come from my creator-"

"Our creator, Sherlock... I suppose you could say that we're brothers, the only two of our kind." I stumbled back slightly at that, it wasn't possible,

"What? No- you can't be-"

"So maybe Victor didn't make me by his hand but I am still the fruit of his knowledge, just as you were, only made by his apprentice instead."

"He didn't have an apprentice-"

"Okay rival, rather fitting that your nemesis is made by your father's school rival, isn't it? He stole the notes from Alphonse and used them to make me, just as they were used to make you. Although from the drawings I've seen of your past, I think that my master did a better job than yours in most respects; he had a more artistic and skilled surgical hand for example. How did it feel to look so abhorrent, to have people scream and run, to never be able to show your face? You must have felt like taking up residence under an Opera House, perhaps stalking a young Soprano-" He smirked, "I look at you now, so full of vitality and so very handsome but do you know what I see?"

"No, and I'm not sure that I want-"

"I see the monster. The monster beneath the new skin and the curls; I see the ugly little dark side that lives in both of us, and the weariness and the hatred and the pain, I see the crimes which put you on my level."

"They were a long time ago."

"But they still happened. They still haunt you, living forever on the edge of your conscience... perhaps if you'd been as normal in your appearance, if your creator's hand had been as careful and as skilled as mine you would have been perfect from the start. Perhaps they would have lived their lives in happiness, and accepted you. If only he could have done as good a job on your face as my own master."

"And how did he your master fail? Apart from the obvious mental instability-"

"Oh you know how Sherlock. We both only have half the notes, only half of the explanations as to how our bodies were animated which meant that my master only had a small portion of that knowledge, neither of us have our soul but I have just a little bit less of a mind and a consciousness than you. Don't misunderstand me, I don't mean than I am less intelligent, my mind is simply more one tracked than yours, less varied. I merely want to watch the world burn, whilst you don't quite understand what you want, to light the match or beat the flames with a blanket... you're a fully formed person, whilst I'm a fully formed villain who's hell-bent on destruction. I have one emotion, whilst you have so many. But then that might be because my master didn't abandon me, he raised me to cause Hell and that is what I shall cause."

He smirked slightly, dark eyes glinting unpleasantly, "it's so nice to chat without your pet around, because when you're around him you're just too... normal, at least you try to be. Looking at you now, alone in the rain, I can see that you're still striving to gain your soul. Personally I prefer my lack of conscience, it's far more fun. I mean you've always strived to be good and human, to be less than what you are but more in the same instance – the mortal man gaining a soul and yet the immortal genius with no love for anything but logic. You can't be both Sherlock. And where have those attempts to be good gotten you? This is where that path has led you, to dark dreary London where you fight for your life and are hated by those around you. They don't appreciate you and nobody loves you, nobody has ever been able to. Being Human won't be all you want it to be Sherlock, give up and join me. Help me create more of us, to be with your own kind and find _true _acceptance. We're the only ones who will actually accept you for what you are, without you needing to change."

I took a step towards the car and he smirked for a second but I simply snatched away the notes and hissed to him,

"Unlike you, I have enough of the notes and my own scientific knowledge to be able to successfully create more of our kind; I could do so now if I was so inclined. I could even have done it a hundred years ago, but I never did for one simple reason. And the reason that I am not inclined that way, nor have I ever been or will I ever be, is that I have seen what I've done and I have seen what others could do, it is not safe or worth it. I will continue on my path as I am, and I will never help you. One day this hard work, this suffering, will pay off and I will find my place amongst mankind, and you will be alone with your hatred and your crimes. I will not make more of us to hurt the world, not when I've seen what they will become... because I know what we've become. I have the benefit of hindsight, which Victor lacked when he made me."

"Then I'll simply keep calling, Sherlock; one day it'll seem so hard and so lonely that you won't be able to resist and you'll give in."

"It'll be a cold day in Hell."

"Hell for us is this land, this Earth. And I think you'll find that it's not long until the winter gets harsher, so look out Sherlock. I'll be back when the snow begins to fall, and it won't be the only thing falling that day."

And with that, the window slid back up and the car pulled away, slicing like a knife through the blackness of the night, leaving me stood alone and clutching the notes. That night, I updated my Mind Palace with every new scrap of information written in Victor's hand and then, when John was asleep and the Smoke Detectors were disconnected, I burnt them in the fireplace. I burnt everything that I had except for the sketches and the pictures; all of the information on creating another of our kind was gone, burnt to a cinder and out of his reach.

Victor had saved my half through insanity and through that single hint of sentiment that he possessed, and his father had done it for the same reason, neither realising that the other half still survived and that sentiment had almost cost a deadly price. Imagine if Moriarty had had the other half, he did not have the scientific genius to make the leap from his sparse notes to another one of us, but if he'd had the other half, my half... I shuddered to think. The Human race would never know how close it had come to its darkest day, and it would never know that I had saved them.

Once it was nothing but ash, I turned and headed up to John's room. I had intended to talk to him about the events that had transpired, to be certain that what I had done was right and to just be calmed by his presence. He was asleep however, and looked so worried and lined with exhaustion that I couldn't wake him. He didn't need to know. So instead, I simply sat on the end of his bed, smiling down at the man sleeping just a few inches away from me, carefully cataloguing his sleep cycles as he snuffled. I may have curled up beside him at one point to just reassure myself that he was there, that he was still breathing and the worst had no happened at the pool side. But nobody needs to know that, I was gone by the morning. As I was every other night in the weeks that followed.

**AN. Just wanted to say that I'd love to see some fanart based on anything from this story, so if anybody wants to do some and post it on tumblr then let me know and I'm sure I'll be able to reward your efforts ;)**


	37. 2011 - The Woman is not the Army Doctor

**2011 - The Woman is not the Army Doctor**

**Sherlock POV**

Her lips were so achingly soft against mine, her skin pale and smooth beneath the ghosting touch of my fingertips as I pulled her flush against me, running my fingers through silken locks. It was all so familiar – the memories of Elizabeth ingrained in my brain, every sensation mulled over a thousand times to try and fill the void when she was gone – and yet at the same time it was new and untested territory, a new woman who knew so much and had done things I'd never dreamed of. But she was kissing me, she was touching me; she was doing things which a hundred years ago women would have described as abhorrent – at least with me of course.

Her smell and her touch and her everything was suddenly overwhelming and I pulled back, shaking my head to clear it of her invasion,

"Stop." She looked at me, a barely concealed smirk dancing on smudged crimson lips. Her frail limbs and pale naked skin were so much like the first woman I had ever seen so naked, so much like my bride. But she was alive and responsive at my fingertips, her beauty was real and not artificial, but I didn't feel that flutter in my heart that I had felt as I touched my first bride, and then Elizabeth, that flutter that I sometimes felt just sitting in the flat, that I couldn't understand. I didn't love her; she occupied my mind but not my heart.

Perfectly manicured nails ran up my face, gently resting against my cheekbone as her thumb stroked across my skin, gently caressing,

"Don't worry, my sweet little virgin, I'll take care of you." I caught her hand, gently prising it away but unable to keep the bubbling irritation from pricking my tone,

"Regardless of what you and Moriarty seem to think, I am not a virgin. In fact, it just so happens, I had a son from a very long ago liaison so you can stop with this taunting-"

"Well, if you have had sex, then you'll know this thing between us... it's just a little bit of harmless fun, I do it every day-" I pulled away, feeling repulsion rising in me,

"I'm glad to see it means so little to you; merely the exchange of bodily fluids and a few hormone levels to you-"

"No, I think that's how you see it Sherlock – in terms of the science - whereas I see the joy and the pleasure it gives to two people," her smirk grew even more devilish, "and occasionally more." I pushed her away again,

"Well clearly you don't understand the value of such a thing. It should be something born out of love-"

"Where did these Victorian values come from, dear?"

"I understand the cost of something like this... I promised not to devalue it ever again. I'm sorry, Irene, but I've made a mistake, you clearly don't feel the same way about this as I do-"

"I thought we already established that I love you, Sherlock, you made a big show to your darling brother, saved my life and brought me here, don't be naïve about why we came here!"

"And I understand now that it's not you; you fascinate me, I fancied myself in love... and yet, I can't do this. I apologise but this is wrong."

I went to gather up my shirt and she caught sight of my back,

"Oh so that's what you're after." I froze before slowly turning to her,

"What do you mean?" She gestured with a small smirk,

"I can get my whip if that's what you want... if you need something kinky. No need to be ashamed." I pulled on my shirt, shoving my arms through the sleeves with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary,

"That won't be necessary, those weren't put there by choice and if they were I'm sure I would have been much more forthcoming with you, a dominatrix. I'm going home, Irene, I suggest you head to the safe place I found you in America."

"There's someone else, isn't there?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're not walking out because you don't want me, because you don't want this. You do love me and you accept that us having sex wouldn't be wrong, because I do love you, but you can't do it. You don't love me, your feelings belong to someone else and you can't betray them with me. I understand that, Sherlock."

"I don't know," she sensed the honesty in my voice and gently pulled me back, doing the buttons up for me,

"I think you do, deep down. And I think that very soon your big brain will connect those facts and you'll know who it is you really want to be with. I think I know."

"Really? And how did you figure that out?"

"Well, it's the same person who looks out for you, who would give their life for you in a heartbeat, who puts up with you when so many others would just give up... who looks at you as if you light up the whole world with just one fantastic deduction."

"I don't-"

"Yes, you do. You were there. I told him that I was gay, and he told me that he wasn't, and he fibbed. The reason you walked away wasn't because of the shock of finding out I was alive, it was the hurt over the fact you didn't think he loved you. Go home, Sherlock. Go home and be with him."

"I will."


	38. 2011 - Cabin Pressure

**AN. Finally, the time has come! Also, if you don't know who these characters are, go listen to the radio drama (name is in the title) because in my opinion it is marvellous and definitely a rite of passage for anyone who wants to call themself a true Sherlock fan.**

**2011 - Cabin Pressure**

**Sherlock POV**

My brief tryst with Miss Adler– if you could call it that, since we had both retained our undergarments – had left me with much to think about. Therefore, it was probably a good thing that I had an eight hour flight on my own to think things through, after sending Irene off with a group of tourists' in a bus. She was headed on an extremely long journey to Mongolia where she would then take a flight to Canada, before heading from there to America. The route was hardly the most direct but I needed her to remain as far under the radar as possible, to ensure that she was going to be safe. She had kissed me very briefly on the cheek, gently rubbing the smudge of red lipstick away with a wistful smile, and then climbing onto the bus and left me at the airport where we were separating. It would most likely be the last time we would ever have contact and, as she covered herself with the burkha I'd acquired for her, I felt a small twinge of regret that we hadn't been able to stay together. But I was going home to be with John and I got the feeling that if their roles had been reversed, and it were John on that bus, I would have been slashing the tires and planting bombs in suitcases to ensure that the bus didn't take him away from me.

I didn't sleep at all during that flight, though everyone around me had drifted off into unconsciousness mere minutes after the safety demonstration, some even during the brief show by the quite incompetent but extremely cheery steward. I stayed awake throughout; it was partially because flying still held a world of wonders for me, being a man from the time of steam trains and horse drawn carriages. The prospect of flight had been but a pipe dream when I was young and now I could hurtle across the world, the clouds seeming just beneath my fingertips, so close that I could practically feel the softness against my skin... it was wondrous. Even that tiny little aeroplane, which I had hired privately, was amazing; not that the tourists I'd procured to act as decoys on my private plane would understand that, they were drooling into their laps and snoring loudly. I had avoided large airlines which Mycroft could easily trace, I didn't want him knowing of my continued – although now terminated - involvement with Miss Adler, or her continuing status as living. The overly excitable flight attendant - who kept telling me his name was Arthur – had planted himself at my side, seeing fit to keep the only conscious passenger company, whether I wanted him to or not. He also kept trying to fill my brain with useless facts about the camels thousands of miles below us; I quickly deleted these details of course, as I tried to ignore his exclamations that camels were "brilliant!"

Their first officer was far more intelligent, which I found out by charming my way into the cabin, although the captain was a gibbering mess – although diligent and safe I noted thankfully, since flying was still a bit daunting in my old fashioned mind. He was a bit tightly wound and with a lack of other interests but not too bad as a pilot, no doubt if he'd been a bit luckier in life he might even have been a bit more relaxed. Although, he paled in comparison to his devilishly charming and witty subordinate – and I severely doubted he wielded any power except for title over the other man – who noted my resemblance to the shorter, curly ginger haired man. I must admit the similarities hadn't been lost on me; the sharp cheekbones, aristocratic profile and eyes were all almost identical.

The Captain's surname was Crieff, his maternal side of the family was Scottish but his paternal side was German, descendants of a small family who had lived in Ingolstadt until Martin's grandmother's generation. It didn't take much of a leap to figure out that the small ginger pilot's ancestor had been the almost perfectly preserved donator of most of my body, donated to Victor by his family for a decent sum to save their children from starvation. Although I simply remarked that it was a coincidence and left it at that, I certainly didn't tell them the real reason we looked so similar. To tell him that I was made mostly from the body parts of his great-great-great-great-grandfather would be disturbing for him, and would probably end with me in an institution.

Arthur had spent the entirety of the flight offering me biscuits and comparing me to Miss Marple, though I had no idea who that was, whilst I chatted with the pilots. One of them – you can probably guess which - insisted that it was against regulations for me to be up there. The CEO, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, had been very lenient on allowing me to remain there, after the large sum of money that I had paid to charter the flight. Pay enough money and anyone will turn a blind eye to anything you wish to do.

Douglas had been all too happy to take a crack at my issue, using his not inconsiderable romantic history. I even got the vague hint that there was something going on with his fellow captain, who flushed bright red when their hands accidentally brushed,

"So you say that you went to Karachi to save this young woman, Irene?"

"Yes, she got into some trouble with my brother and was subsequently scheduled to be beheaded by a terrorist cell, who she had recently gotten on the wrong side of."

"And you loved her?" I looked at the captain, it was the first time he had said a sentence which didn't sound like an indignant squawk,

"I cannot be certain anymore... I don't understand love; I haven't for a very long time." Douglas chuckled, reclining in his seat,

"Join the club. Nobody understands it, Mr Watson," I was using a false name to avoid Mycroft's notice, you probably guess why I chose that name, "you just need to feel it."

"I don't know if I do feel it; I haven't been in love for many years."

"Okay, so have you had been in love prior to Miss Adler?" I nodded, thinking of Elizabeth, "and how did you feel then?"

"Like I had solved a thousand cases at once and she was the solution to all of them." He raised an eyebrow, clearly not getting the analogy,

"Okay, and have you felt like that since then?" I nodded, "for Miss Adler?" I shook my head, "but you had feelings for her," once more I nodded, "well who inspires those feelings now?"

I frowned, watching the Captain's hands on the buttons and consoles and carefully memorising what he was doing, knowing that I could fly this plane should we go down, with only a couple minutes' notice,

"Irene seems to think that it is John, my flatmate. But I am married to my work, I have been for a long time. I trust me, I have looked for love for a long time and there's no one out there for me-"

"Well your flatmate seems to be there for you."

"In a platonic way."

"Do you think John love you?"

"He's straight-"

"That doesn't answer my question. It seems to me from what you've told us of your life – and everything that John will do for you - that he would give his life for your safety and he loves you. And despite your constant objection, you are in fact capable of love even if you've been pretending otherwise for some time-"

"And that's the way it should be, I'm married to my work."

"But John's part of your work!"

We all turned to stare at Arthur, who had just blurted that out, "I mean-" I stopped him from backtracking,

"No, go on."

"Well- I just seems like John's your partner in work... and he's a big part of your Miss Marple-ness now. You probably couldn't really do your work without him there anymore, you need him... so if you're married to your work, well you're sort of married to him-" Martin cut across his babbling,

"Yes, that actually makes sense Arthur. Describe him, Sherlock."

"Well, he's small and compact, nice smile and warm blue eyes, kind and compassionate to counteract my own coldness, but then he's a doctor, a far kinder one than I was, but he was in the army so he's brave. He's handsome I suppose, in a normal but very nice way – although he wears too many jumpers – and I don't know what I'd do without him." Carolyn spoke now, a maternal tone to her usually irritable voice,

"I think you have your answer there, Mr Watson, your female friend was right. Maybe you should tell him." I didn't reply to that, we were coming to an end to our journey anyway. I returned to my seat, after saying my farewells, and sat quietly to contemplate and process what I had leartn. By the end of the flight I'd made a decision.

I was in love with Dr John Hamish Watson... and I was going to win him over.

**AN. Also, after the next chapter, there is light hearted whimsy ahead, so hopefully you will all enjoy!**


	39. 2011 - Exhaustion

2011 - Exhaustion

Sherlock POV

I arrived back home – or rather to John, because John_ was_ home - in the late hours of the night, exhaustion dragging my heavy limbs down and the soreness left over from the fight with the men in Karachi making me went to bathe in a bath full of ice. I closed the front door quietly, so as to not wake him or Mrs Hudson, and stumbled through to the living room with the intention of collapsing on the sofa.

I didn't get that far however. My body simply gave out halfway up the stairs, lack of sleep getting the better of it; I was used to it, every couple of months or so my body would finally be pushed to its limit and crumble against it. I might have been far more robust than other people but my body still had its limits, although they were far past what was normal. I needed sleep, to process and reboot my hard drive in a way that you just can't manage whilst conscious. Moreover, the muscles all over my body needed time to unwind and relax fully.

After one of my collapses I would usually be sore for a few days, I'd have a pounding headache and I'd be dizzy for quite a while and unable to get off the floor due to the sickening swirl of movement. Then I would eat and sleep and be back to full strength – they really only happened when I went without food or sleep for about four weeks straight now. I almost missed the days when my humanity was so non-existent that I had survived for forty years without tending to a single bodily function. My body was clearly much weaker now, which would likely alarm my roommate since he had yet to see me in this state, and would most likely lecture me about looking after myself when I woke up. But that was a matter for later, for now I simply curled up and allowed exhaustion to take me in its deep, dark arms.

I was vaguely aware, sometime during my slumber, of someone picking me up in surprisingly strong arms and carrying me up the stairs, hands lingering on my body as they laid me down gently on the sofa and covered me with a blanket. I felt fingers dance across my skin and push the curls from my forehead, perhaps even the ghost of lips on my forehead but it might have been a dream because then I was unconscious again, falling into dreamless sleep once more.

When I woke, dazed and not quite remembering where I was, John was sat at his laptop at the desk across the room from me, and I was just able to gasp through my dry lips and parched throat,

"John? Wha' 'appened-?" He looked up, blues eyes blazing and face set in an irritated expression, but the handsome plains still making my heart speed into a thunderous drum in my chest. How had I not realised my feelings before now? Why did I only now realise that the pounding in my chest, the light-headedness and the butterflies flittering about in my stomach were only present when John was there, my heart beat only for John, always for John,

"What happened? You went off bloody gallivanting and left me here worried sick, that's what happened! I was about to take my gun and go looking to see if Moriarty had you and then you turn up on the staircase, passed out because you don't know how to look after yourself. Two hundred years old and you're still an idiot."

I rolled onto my back, my head spinning slightly, and slowly pushed myself to my feet. I was embarrassingly unsteady on my feet as I made my way over to where there was a cup of tea at his side, gulping down a large mouthful to lubricate my mouth, "and then you came back and stole my tea. Thanks for that." I smirked at him, his irritation had melted away to slight exasperation, "you have to look after yourself, Sherlock. You don't know the limits of your body anymore, it's changing of late and you never know what it will put up with."

He jumped slightly as I suddenly wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing my face into the nape and hugging tightly, feeling the flush in both of our skins, holding on and trying to get all of my feelings across with a hug. It was all I could manage, I wasn't able to kiss him, in case he didn't return my feelings, in case we were both wrong about how he felt, "you're hugging me."

"Brilliant observation John."

"Why?

"Many reasons. For the moment however... I'm simply grateful to you; for all you've done and for being concerned for me, it isn't easy for me to say this... but you're very important to me John and I appreciate you, you might even say that I-" I steeled myself to say it, and I could hear his breath hitch, but I didn't know if it was excitement or anxiety, I need to collect more data before I could tell him, so I simply said, "I care for you deeply." I hugged slightly, desperately hoping that he knew how much I wanted to use the word love, but was just too afraid to.

"Sherlock, what brought all this on-?"

"Shush, no talking when I'm hugging you, you're making this difficult for me. I don't do this very often-" I tightened my arms slightly and he chuckled,

"I can tell, since you're choking me-" I went to loosen my arms but his hands reached up and grabbed my forearms, holding them in place, "no, it's fine, I quite like it." I buried my face slightly in the soft bristly blonde hair,

"Dr Watson, I think you might be a slight masochist." He didn't say anything; he simply squeezed my forearm gently, resting his head back into the crook of my neck, tucking it under my chin.

If I played my cards very carefully over the next few weeks, I was going to woo my blogger and be so utterly charming he would have to declare his love for me. It wasn't really fair of me to force him to act first, since I was fairly certain already of John's feelings, but I needed to be absolutely certain. I couldn't put myself out there and then lose him because he didn't return those returns.

It was still a little bit... odd for someone to apparently love me, to care about me. I still thought about people running or screaming when they saw me, hate taking dominance over love. My own father ran away as proof of how disgusting and unlovable I was. Even now, when I looked in the mirror, I still saw myself as I had hundreds of years ago, the scars haunted me and I could still feel the jigsaw of my long since healed skin. People assured me that I was good-looking now – well some still thought I had a weird, unattractively long face – but I could not see it, I would never see it. Inside, in my head and in my heart, I was still a monster.

And yet, John Watson, for some bizarre, unfathomable reason had apparently fallen in love with me. He deserved better than me... maybe in a few months, after he'd been with me and gotten close enough to see my emotional and my physical scars in the light only a lover can see them in, he'd realise his mistake. But for now I would be greedy, I would enjoy every bit of affection I could glean from the man, before it ran dry.

But first I needed to win him over, to get him to say how he felt... which would call for:

Operation Woo John Watson

**AN. Lucky people, two updates in one day! And you got some Hug!lock (I wish I could hug him). Don't be afraid to review and let me know some of the wooing techniques you would like to see employed by Sherlock, I have some written but I aim to please with anything that YOU want to see!**

**We should be getting into daily updates now, as the reviews make me happy whilst I'm doing hours of revision for exams.**


	40. Day One - Blogger

**Day One of Operation Woo John Watson - Blogger**

**John POV**

Placing my tea at my side, and finishing off the biscuit I had been handed by Mrs Hudson on my way up the stairs, I sat myself down in front of the laptop and started it up, blinking in surprise when it turned on immediately. It usually had a problem booting up, due to being old and out of date (I couldn't really afford a new one), I don't think it had ever turned on so quickly. I shrugged and put it down to good luck, until I opened my login and found that my desktop image had been changed from the default setting to a picture of... me and Sherlock, weird. It was a nice picture too, one of the pictures taken for a newspaper - which I think I remembered was the image on page six the day before. Sherlock was stood next to Lestrade, although he was cropped out in this image, and I was standing at his side with the two of us looking at each other and smiling stupidly, it had been taken just after I had said something that had made us both giggle and seeing our expressions I could definitely understand why the headline had included the term 'lovestruck'. It was a nice picture though, enough to make me smile.

I went to open the internet and noticed a little square on the desktop which looked like a sticky note, which I didn't realise my computer could do. It contained a tiny little message,

_John, I took your laptop to be fixed and updated, you now have signficantly improved virus protection, the newest windows and a few other improvements, including a new battery and a new screen - _that was when I realised that not only did the whole screen look brighter and cleaner, it didn't have the little blob of black pixels in the top corner - _since I cannot have my blogger using sub-par equipment. I also took the liberty of writing down the details of a few cases, which you will find in a word document, should you wish to include anything. I hope you enjoy the new changes. SH_

I smiled, it was surprisingly thoughtful of him... I wonder what he wanted. He was probably going to come home with a corpse under his arm, and this was his way of buttering me up before hand. Oh well, I would just have to enjoy it while I could.

To my surprise, when he came home a few hours later, he didn't seem to be up to anything. He smiled, said please and thank you, made me a cup of tea (which was atrocious, he still couldn't make tea, but it's the thought that counts) and sat next to me, talking about our cases as I wrote them up. At one point we both reached for one of the biscuits he had made (yes, he genuinely baked biscuits, apparently he heard Mrs Hudson say that the fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach and he thought it might help him solve a case he had just received regarding a murderous baker... strange because I didn't remember a baker contacting either of us) and, I might have been imagining it, I could have sworn when our hands accidently touched, he went slightly pink. But he didn't say anything, and carried on his story about the Austrian Sheep Herder who had been framed by a Milk Maid. I just shook it off, he probably didn't even realise we had brushed fingers for a second.

**AN. This was for part of prompt from KnoKnayme, "****_John goes to log on to his pc and realizes that Sherlock has installed the latest version of windows complete with antivirus software_****". I hope you enjoyed what I did with it and if anybody else wants to make any suggestions, feel free to review or PM me! **


	41. Day Two - Having a Ball

**Day Two of Operation Woo John Watson – Having a Ball**

**Sherlock POV**

"Surely you can't be serious, Sherlock!" I glanced back at where John was climbing out of the cab,

"I am serious, and don't call me Sherly." He froze, halfway out of the cab,

"Seriously? I thought you deleted all pop culture references, how do you know a quote from Airplane!?"

"I have no idea what you are referring to John; just don't call me Sherly, that's what Mycroft called me when he was a teenager and wanted to wind me up." I remembered two weeks where he had referred to me only by that name; I had been close to going back to my murdering ways,

"It's just… a ball? Really? Why are we going to a ball? Your cases are getting really weird of late; first the weird thing about the biscuits yesterday and now we're going to a ball? Where do you find these people?" I didn't look back at him, lest he read my expression and realising that I was making it up as I went along, in an attempt to use my wooing tactic covertly,

"On my website, John; you may think they only visit your blog but I have some people find me through my website-"

"Right, fine, let's just say I believe you. What is this case, why are we in tuxedos and where are we going?" I reached out to adjust his bowtie slightly, trying to put on my best charming smile, and he squirmed slightly and flushed at my closeness. I briefly considered putting an end to all of the wooing tactics and just leaning just a few inches closer and kissing him, the lights of Covent Garden all around us were hitting him in a rather lovely way and it would only take a second to capture his lips with mine. But then there was a wolf whistle behind us and we leapt apart, turning to look at the gang of teenagers making "kissy" noises, as John would later to refer to it as,

"It's not much further," a few minutes later we arrived at our destination,

"The Royal Opera House?"

"Mycroft procured it, they occasionally run tea-dances but they agreed to hold a more upscale event for some ambassadors and foreign princes and princesses; I had him hire the bakery firm to produce some catering for the event, so I could get a look at the potential murderer. Since she seems to find all her victims at formal occasions, they've all been very important politicians so far." It was all nonsense, there was no case. I was just going to convince John to dance with me and Mycroft had willingly gifted tickets. As we were entering the ballroom and heading towards the centre of the room, he hissed,

"I can't ballroom dance, Sherlock, what if someone asks me to take them out for a whirl?" He was looking at any woman who made eye contact with a look of sheer panic at this point,

"Then you simply tell them that you are my date." He flushed an even deeper red now,

"I-I can't say that!"

"Why not? You are my plus one-"

"Yes, but not in that way!" I tried not to let the hurt show on my face at that one, "then they'll expect us to dance together." I waved off a tray of champagne being offered to us, reached out and took John's hand, pulling him towards the dance floor, "what are you doing? Sherlock, stop!"

"I'm going to teach you how to dance." He momentarily forgot to struggle, as he looked at me in surprise,

"You know how to ballroom dance?"

"Of course I do, I lived through the Victorian and Edwardian times. If it will make you more comfortable, you can lead. Put your hand on my waist." He looked like his face was going to erupt at any second and start spewing lava,

"Where?"

"John, stop being a child!"

"Won't it look weird for two guys to be dancing together?"

"I hardly think anyone will comment, considering how our esteemed host is currently over there waltzing with our Detective Inspector." John's head whipped round to look; his suspicions were confirmed, as he saw a surprisingly agile Mycroft waltz further into the crowd, leading a less graceful Lestrade,

"Wow, he's actually rather good."

"I used to dance with him on my feet when he was little, to make mummy happy."

"That's a surprisingly adorable image."

"Indeed, if I tried now he would likely break all of the bones in my feet."

"And now we're back to normal Sherlock."

"Yes, now stop trying to distract me or I'm going to put you on my feet and teach you like a child, you're certainly small enough."

"I am not-" He was stopped by my positioning his hands and pushing him into action,

"One, two, three. One, two, three. Don't slam your feet down, almost. Try again." The next ten minutes proceeded to being extremely awkward and yet quite nice, once John finally got into the rhythm and just started to enjoy himself, grinning up at me. Then, as we got slightly hot and flustered, the music came to a close and progressed into a slow dance, I almost thought he would allow me to move closer and enjoy the music but he broke away, coughing slightly in the back of his throat,

"So, um," he coughed again, avoiding eye contact, "have you seen the catering girl?" I shook my head, disappointed at the end, "no, I'll go and have a look for her, shall I?" He nodded and I sighed, "feel free to have a drink and some food, I won't be long."

I went off to the kitchen for about an hour, in attempt to make it convincing that I was looking for information for a case, and when I returned it was to an extremely tipsy roommate who was leaning on Lestrade heavily,

"Sorry, Sherlock, he got into the champagne." I sighed, as John was transferred over to me,

"It's fine, how much did he have?"

"I didn't- I didn't have _that _much, Sherl-Sher-Sherly," he slurred,

"I would estimate about a bottle then, am I right?" Lestrade nodded in confirmation, as Mycroft appeared through the crowd,

"So you finally arrived then, brother dearest?" I fixed him with my best dirty look,

"Yes and now I think I shall be on my way, before John drinks himself into a stupor and I have to join him through the monotony of your official speeches. Goodbye, Mycroft, and I shall see you on Monday, Lestrade." He nodded, as I heaved John up and placed his arm around my neck,

"You smell good," John muttered, from where his head was lolling on my shoulder,

"Really? I smell as I always do-"

"Precisely. You always smell good; you smell like… like violin and pretty eyes and… and you just smell… brilliant. Have I ever told you how much I love you?" My heart fluttered slightly but I tried to fight to remain impassive, I didn't want John to wake up tomorrow and think I had taken advantage in his alcohol-addled state,

"No, I don't think you have-"

"Well, it's lots. I don't tell you that because I know you don't love me-"

"Don't be foolish, John, I love you more than anyone I have ever met."

"But that's just," He swiped drunkenly at my arm, missing completely and stumbling. I caught him round the waist, turned him and looked him in the eye, he made an odd little noise in the back of his throat and then whispered, "as friends." I leant in closer,

"As usual, you see but you don't observe." His tongue darted out, a tiny flick of pink, to lick his lips and for the second time that night we were so close to kissing and then the moment was ruined by a group of men—equally as drunk as John—shouting at us,

"Oi, fags, take it somewhere else!"

"No-one wants to bloody see that!"

"Piss off back to your palace, fairies!" I turned, fury cold in the pit of my stomach but was stopped from marching over there by John stumbling forwards drunkenly and snarling, clumsily patting down the front of his tuxedo,

"Where's my gun? I'll shoot 'em!" There was a chorus of mocking ooh's and I just sighed, putting my arm around his waist and deciding it wasn't worth John getting hurt,

"Come on, John, there's no point. Let's just get you back to bed-"

"Are you coming back to that bed with me?" I chuckled,

"Maybe another time, but may I just say how marvellous you look in your tuxedo?" He grinned,

"You may indeed, since you look equally dashing."

"Now, back to 221B, you're going to need all the sleep you can get to deal with the hangover you're going to wake up with."

"Oh God."

"Don't worry, John, I'll be there the whole time."

All in all, day two had been a success; I knew he loved me, now I just needed to hear it from his sober lips, and I had a plan for tomorrow already sat in the fridge.


	42. Day Three - Sherlock's Heart

**Day Three - Sherlock's Heart**

**Sherlock POV**

The door to our flat swung open, crashing against the wall in a gust of cold air, as John shouted at me, where I was dousing some chicken legs in dilute sulphuric acid,

"Sherlock, can you help me with the shopping?" I appeared at his side, causing him to jump in surprise, having not heard my silent approach, "bloody hell! Don't jump out at me like that." He was clutching his heart and he still looked a bit worst for wear after last night, with an unusual pale look and evidently a banging head ache since he clutched his head, he had also apparently forgotten everything that had happened the night before,

"I apologise-" He blinked looking through his hands to peer at me closely,

"What did you just say?"

"I said that I apologise." He placed the shopping at his feet with a quiet thud,

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with my flatmate?" It was my turn to blink in surprise at that,

"What's going on? What are we doing?"

"I'm just assuming that the real Sherlock Holmes has been kidnapped and replaced by his Doppelganger, since my Sherlock doesn't apologise." My Sherlock, interesting.

I simply shrugged and picked up the shopping, carrying it into the kitchen, "has he been abducted by aliens? Because I'm sure they're probably actually highly possible, if you're plausible as a man-made person then aliens must be possible too. They've probably seen the real Sherlock's super-human intelligence and kidnapped him to probe him for science."

"Probe me? For one thing, how much could that actually teach them? And for another, I have no intention of letting_ aliens_ do anything of the sort."

"Is it just me or did you emphasise aliens as if you'd let someone else do something similar?" I raised an eyebrow,

"Entirely your imagination, John. Now I've carried the shopping, you can put it away. Or at least I hope you can, it shouldn't be too far beyond your mental capabilities."

"Ah, that's more like my Sherlock."

I disappeared back to where I'd left my experiment in the bathroom; I heard John call out just a few seconds later, having apparently opened the fridge, "Sherlock, what the Hell is this?"

"I think you're referring to the Horse's Heart in the jar. Am I correct?"

"Of course you bloody are; you're always bloody correct! But why is there a Horse's heart in our refrigerator between the pickled onions and jam?"

"Because that's where you're most likely to see it-"

"And why do I need to see it?"

"Because it's a message!"

"What? Why are you leaving me a Mafia-style Message?!"

"I believe the Mafia communicate with Horses' heads, not their hearts."

"There's still a bloody heart in my fridge, though!"

"Did you expect it to climb out and walk away?"

The squabbling continued for another ten minutes. Day three of the wooing had apparently failed, I'd try again tomorrow. Perhaps with something more obvious.

**AN. This was based on a different one-shot I wrote, but considerably shorter. If you have any prompts for wooing tactics you'd like to see, then leave me a review/PM **


	43. Day Four - Tranquiliser for my Valentine

**Day Four - Tranquiliser for my Valentine**

**Sherlock POV**

"Hurry up, John! We'll lose him!" John was grunting in irritation behind me, muttering words which were no doubt incredibly rude, as he tried to keep up. Luckily, the serial killer zoo keeper we'd been trying to chase had stopped at a door up ahead... unluckily, he then continued on through that door and into the lion cage, where I'd correctly deduced he'd been feeding pieces of his victims to the lions.

Not pausing for more than a second to think of all the things that could go wrong, I continued on after him – ignoring John's protests – as I finally brought the killer down with a rugby tackle, quickly tying his hands firmly behind his back with improvised bindings – namely, my scarf. I was so engrossed with tying his arms behind the back that I didn't see the slow approach of a very large, agitated lion, who had apparently developed a taste for human after the zoo-keeper's meals recently.

I heard running footsteps behind me and then a small tranquiliser dart was shooting over my head and imbedding itself into the lion's hindquarters, shortly followed by two more, until the lion was dropping to its knees a few metres behind me, drawing my attention at last with a loud thud,

"Good shot, John." He growled at me, doing a surprisingly good impression of the beast he'd just felled,

"If I hadn't thought to grab the tranquilisers-"

"Then you could have pulled out that gun you keep on your person at all times – purely for the purpose of keeping it out of my hands – and we'd have been fine anyway. But... erm, thank you for thinking about the tranquiliser. That was," I cleared my throat slightly, "very good, well done." I saw the pink tinge to his face and instantly surrendered the zoo-keeper to him, since Lestrade had given him some proper cuffs earlier, just in case we were in this exact – well maybe not exact, the lion probably didn't factor in Lestrade's thoughts, but something similar – situation.

I stood silently and looked around, noticing the Acacia shrubbery a few metres away and had an idea. In the Victorian language of flowers, Acacia meant secret love so perhaps it would be good to hint to John that I had feelings for him.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" I looked up from where I was severing a few twigs with my penknife, collecting the thorny branches in my hand and wrapping them in a handkerchief,

"I'm making a bouquet." He frowned, handing the man over to the policeman that had been summoned, before crossing the pen to stand beside me,

"Don't people usually use flowers for that?"

"Not quite my style John and besides, there are no flowers and these have a much more appropriate meaning. Here, take these as a token of my appreciation." I handed him the small bunch of twigs, and he blushed even redder as a little old woman in the viewing area shouted loudly,

"Kiss him!"


	44. Day Five - Notes

**Day Five - Notes**

**John POV**

I blinked at the small sticky note which had been attached to the milk in the fridge, well one of the bottles… the fridge appeared to be full of bottles of milk, mixed with occasional jar of jam, I had just got back from a shift at the surgery to see it,

**I went to the shop for you, the queue took an eternity but I survived without angering too many people. SH**

I sighed, the eccentricities of my flatmate weren't entirely familiar to me yet, I was still discovering oddities to this day. So I simply continued making my cup of tea and subconsciously tucked the note into my pocket, wondering why Sherlock had decided to suddenly go shopping... and for milk and jam no less.

It wasn't the only note I found that day. On the bottom drawer of the freezer, I found another note with carefully inked handwriting warning me,

**There are currently six fingers and two toes in this drawer; I made sure to put them in a bag and have moved all of your edible items to the drawer above so as to not upset you. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you. SH**

I smiled slightly at that, again tucking the note away and going about my business of getting some chicken breasts out to defrost for dinner. Although when I returned after going shopping for other ingredients, I found that my meal had already been cooked for me and placed on the table, with a clean white tablecloth and candles on it, meal still warm and with a bottle of wine next to it,

**1971 vintage, the year you were born. It made me think of you. SH**

Even I couldn't deny that that last sentence made my face heat up a little bit and my heart beat a little faster, making me feel a bit like a teenage girl with a crush. The wine was lovely, and the dinner was actually delicious, but I couldn't help but wish that he had been there to share it with me. Although, what he would have thought about me asking him to share a candlelit dinner with him, I don't know. I think he was still oblivious as to the nature of my true feelings for him, since I don't think I revealed anything in that forgotten evening a few nights ago where I got so drunk I couldn't remember a thing in the morning. But dinner would have been more fun if he'd been there to share it. The mystery of his absence was easily solved by a note on the living room wall,

**I have gone on a case and didn't want to disturb you at work, nor did I want you to have to sacrifice a quiet night in after a long day's shift at the surgery so I did not text you. I will be back by ten, if not then I have told Mycroft to inform you of my whereabouts. I hope you enjoy the meal,. The case won't feel the same without my blogger but I'll back as soon as I can. I'll miss you at the crime scene. SH**

At the end of the day, I couldn't bring myself to throw away even one of the sticky notes – especially not the last of them – but I certainly didn't tell Sherlock that I'd put them underneath my pillow. There they stayed, as a little reminder that - though I doubted he cared for me in the same way as I cared for him - he did in fact care about me in his own way.

* * *

**AN. Maybe John's starting to get the message? Maybe. But for now, I'm rather enjoying writing some sweet and happy stuff - since if this wooing stops, we may have to return to heartache - and who knows how many days of wooing it will take?... or if it will even be successful! Since, Henry Knight's coming very soon and then we all know what happens in the episode after Baskerville... **


	45. Day Six - Woollen Heart

**Day Six - Woollen Heart**

**Sherlock POV**

A few years ago I had a case involving an Austrian Sheep Herder, who had a penchant for making his own clothes; in the time when I was living undercover on his farm, he taught me how to knit jumpers. Ever since the first day after my flight home from Karachi, I had been working on a new sweater. Admittedly, it had a few holes in it and it was very slightly lopsided, but within a few sleepless nights it was complete.

I waited until John went downstairs to see Mrs Hudson, and ask if she had something that he needed for his breakfast, and I slipped into his bedroom with the jumper in hand, before folding it and placing it on his jumper. I just managed to slip out of the room in time for John to come up the stairs to get dressed for his visit to his sister, and I watched through the crack in the door as he picked up the soft bundle and stroked the soft wool with a finger. But I was gone before he could turn and see me.

It seemed the perfect gift, he always said it was the thought and the effort that mattered rather than the price tag, and it had taken rather a lot of both, so I hoped he appreciated. Besides, his woollen jumpers were one of the first things I thought of when I thought of John – after his smile and the laughter lines around his blue eyes. He was a small bundle of blonde hair, eyes, smile and wool in my head, and I could certainly understand why Mrs Hudson's old friends would natter on about how adorable he was when we went down to her flat and accidentally stumbled into their tea and biscuit circle. I was glad that Mrs Hudson seemed to have recovered so well from losing her husband, Mrs Turner seemed to have introduced her to a large group and she certainly seemed much happier than she had when we first bumped into each other on the street.

John came down the stairs as I was sitting back down on the sofa, reading the paper; he said nothing about the jumper he was no wearing, he didn't need to. From the day on, he wore it whenever he could.

**AN. Interesting thing happened today; I google searched this story and found something called the "fanfiction reader's diary" by HEREDHETHER, in Czech I believe. Which is a lovely little review (from what I can gather, as it is written in czech and I'm using google translate to read it) who thinks this is a very artistic idea and one in a million, and it was just really sweet. Although I gathered they don't like the romancing at the moment as much as the preceding stuff, don't worry we'll be back to the more typical angst soon czech person! If you're reading this, thank you!**


	46. A brief bump in the road

**A.N – To "Crazy-about-books", evidently great minds think alike, since I had this written up when you suggested a concert, so hurray!**

* * *

**A brief bump in the road**

**John POV**

Normally, waking to the dulcet sound of a violin would be rather romantic and sweet, enjoyable... not when it's bloody three in the morning. I groaned, shoving myself out of bed and stumbling slightly. My hair was sticking up all over the place, my new woollen jumper (a surprisingly thoughtful and lovely gift from Sherlock) was hanging off one shoulder, being quite baggy, and I could barely open my eyes against the harsh light.

Sherlock turned to face me as I stumbled into the living room, preparing to give him a verbal lashing that would force him to realise that playing the violin ridiculously early in the morning when other inhabitants were trying to sleep was a bit not good. But I stopped in my tracks when he smiled at me, most of the occasionally cold and robotic persona melting away, and he looked visibly excited,

"I've finished it, John! I've been composing this for fifteen years and I've finally finished it... it needed something, but I didn't know what. You're it John, I finished it because of you. You gave me the final notes of inspiration." I blinked; it was too early for this,

"Did I? Okay- good, I s'pose... can I go back to sleep now?"

"No, John, I composed it for you and you should be my audience."

I was vaguely aware of being pushed down into my armchair, a blanket being gently tucked around me and then the actually quite beautiful melody starting again. As annoyed as I was about being woken so early, when I was exhausted after a day's work in the surgery, I couldn't deny that every note was flawless and the music was beautiful, gently dancing and teasing at my ear, every note filled with a passion and a feeling that I didn't even know Sherlock possessed.

And slowly, the soft melodious sound pulled me down into slumber, where I dreamt of the darkest chestnut curls, and their halo around pale skin. My dreams were filled with lips so perfectly curved they looked like they'd been painted by a Renaissance master and eyes so sharp they could cut right through me, to where his very being had captured my heart.

When I woke in the morning, Sherlock was gone and all traces of my midnight concert were gone. I sighed, realising that I had slept in the armchair all night and there was a very severe crick in my neck after having slept in that awkward position. I yawned, pushed myself upright and headed upstairs to change; I briefly considered wearing the jumper that Sherlock had made me – I still couldn't quite get my head around the fact he had actually made it - but decided ultimately that it was too nice of a day and I would sweat far too much in it, it was already getting ripe from me wearing it for most of the day and night for the past two and a bit days. So I folded it up and put it onto my pillow, ready to wear later when I went to bed.

That morning we met with Henry Knight, only to head off for Dartmoor before I had even had breakfast. Sherlock had been on edge all through the journey, frantically texting someone and distracted. He said nothing about the violin concert the night before and I began to wonder if I had maybe dreamt it, but then turned to me and smiled, before engaging me by agreeing to deduce as many passenger's life stories in under a minute as possible.

Sherlock POV

I shouldn't have said it; I felt the regret crash over me as soon as the words were spat across at him, in my panic and my anger,

"I don't have friends," why did I say that? I had been alone for so long, for so ridiculously long and suddenly there was John, the shining light in my life, and he had been my friend, I'd spent the week trying to persuade him to be more than that in fact and with that tone of hurt and annoyance I knew that I must have undone all of that work, possibly even our friendship. If he walked away now… and there it was, that look in his eye that had me terrified,

"No, I wonder why." He got up to leave and in my mind I was shouting my apologies, telling him that he was certainly my friend and more, that he meant more to me than anyone else in the world. But I remained silent, just a tiny movement of my head to acknowledge that he had moved, and then there was only the regret to keep me company.

As much as John protested that it was impossible, that the _Hound_ was impossible, I had seen it. I saw the huge black dog, looming over us and ready to attack, I knew that if_ I _am possible than that dog certainly was. It had to be. So I would just have to find out exactly what was happening.

I woke the next morning to find that his bed had been vacant all night, causing a slight rise of panic in my stomach at the thought that something might have happened. Until I remembered that he was angry with me and most likely had found alternative lodgings for that reason. Luckily, I had a distraction to take my mind of my—as Mrs Hudson would call it—'Domestic' with John, I had had the realisation overnight that perhaps I hadn't seen the dog; perhaps there was a drug somewhere which was causing the effect, most likely in the sugar that Henry and I both had in our sugar but John did not, so I went to test my theory. I would see John later.

John POV

The case was solved, Sherlock was back to his usual self and we were heading home soon. I still felt a slight pang of anger in the bottom of my stomach, we had made up but that didn't make up for the betrayal I felt about the fact he had tried to dose me with the sugar and that he had locked me in that lab. I had been terrified, who does that to someone they claim to care about? Seriously, it's sick. So whilst Sherlock might have been on his best behaviour, there was still a bit of anger bubbling up every so often. The blow was slightly cushioned by the fact that Sherlock had been wrong about the sugar, and there was always a fleeting satisfaction when Sherlock was wrong.

Sherlock was gone now, as I was finishing off eating, and when I turned I expected him to still be talking to the owner of the dog, trying to understand the sentiment behind letting the dog go. Except he wasn't there, he seemed to have finished his conversation and disappeared. I frowned, peering around and still not seeing him, I glanced at my watch. We still had a few hours until the train back to London but I had been planning to make sure everything was packed and maybe try and get him to eat something, since he hadn't had anything to eat since we had arrived. My phone buzzed in my pocket and luckily it was Sherlock's number,

_I have all of our belongings in the car; we have to make a short stop on our way to the station. SH._

I sighed, wondering what he was up to now. I said my goodbyes to the pub's owners and found Sherlock waiting at the Land Rover we had hired, hands behind his back. For a minute, I just looked at him expectantly, until finally he said,

"You're angry at me."

"No, I'm no-"

"Well you're not happy with me; you've been upset with me ever since we came here. First there was my behaviour after the moor and then in the lab, we've spent quite a lot of time apart for the past few days, and that's because you've been upset."

"I'm sorry, we've both been on edge, it's just been a weird couple of days."

"Yes, but before this trip we were getting along rather well and these past few days have put a strain on our friendship. I cannot lose you John, so I wanted to apologise and give you something."

"Oh? What's that?" A pale hand reached out, a small parcel held out,

"Should I be excited or bloody terrified by whatever's in that package?" He just smiled,

"Life's too short for you mortals to worry about such trivial things; choose excitement, I certainly would be if in your position." With a weary sigh, I reached out and accepted the package. It was small, about the size of one of those old video tapes we used before DVDs, but flatter. It was therefore unlikely to be explosive, alive or have bullets. But then again, this was Sherlock and he had his ways, "just open it John."

I shot him one last wary look and then dug my fingernails in and ripped, revealing its contents in one clean rip and gaping at what I saw,

"Sherlock, how- how did you know?"

"I may have phoned Harry, and then your father, and then your mother, until they told me." I clutched the bar of chocolate close to my chest,

"I just- where did you get it? They haven't made it for twenty years! This was my favourite thing in the world when I was a kid; I loved this stuff more than I loved my sister at one point."

"Yes, I saw the pictures of you when you were young." I groaned,

"When?"

"When I went to see your mother and ask her about the chocolate, she said you were always a—and these were her words, not mine—chunky child, who was saved a very lonely and unappealing life of obesity by joining the army." I groaned in embarrassment,

"She didn't-"

"She certainly did. But she was very forthcoming about the chocolate."

"Seriously, this is bloody amazing. This stuff was like crack to me," I think he slightly flinched at that, possibly due to his own addictions… to actual crack, so I quickly changed the topic, "but how did you get it?" He relaxed slightly,

"I remembered that one of my clients was a chocolatier, who lives only a few minutes from here. I contacted him when I knew we were coming to Dartmoor, he did some research and then he made the bar from the original recipe – which was actually produced not far from here. I then asked another client to go through some old archives to find some packaging, which we used to cover the bar."

"Sherlock- I'm truly touched by this, I can't believe how much effort you put into this… but just, why?"

"Well you were angry-"

"Yeah, but you said you contacted him when you found out we were coming to Dartmoor, which was before I was angry at you. Meaning that you were already planning to do all this for me, so why? Why go to all this trouble, why waste all those favours and all that effort on me?"

"It wasn't wasted John, my effort and affection will never be wasted on you. You deserve all that I can give you and more, which you should know by now that. Despite the slight difficulty of the past few days, I truly care about you and I would do anything for you. Just don't expect another chocolate bar for another few months; you might need to ration that one." I grinned, breaking off a piece and putting it on my tongue with an almost reverence, like a catholic eating the bread at mass,

"Oh God, it's delicious," I groaned, aware of how dirty the noise sounded. Not that Sherlock would notice, since he seemed to have no sex drive, he cleared his throat and I think there was a pink tinge to his cheeks, that was weird,

"So… am I forgiven?" I moaned again, as the taste melted on my tongue,

"Oh God yes," I held out the bar, "want a bit?" He smiled and nodded, breaking off a small piece,

"Have you got all of your stuff? As I said, we have a quick stop to make."

"Oh, I thought that was just to get me to come to the car. Where are we going?"

"We're going back to Baskerville."

"What? Why are we doing that?"

"Because I noticed something very worrying on our last visit, and Mycroft has therefore been able to get me one final entrance."

"What did you see?"

He didn't respond, which was worrying; if it had Sherlock upset then clearly it was something extremely unethical, since he wouldn't have batted an eyelid at most of the stuff going on in there.

The silence of his deep thought during that drive was worrying, and as we pulled through the gates for the third time in just a few days—seriously, we just kept visiting one of the most top security bases in the country and they just kept letting us in—and he looked at me, as we were getting out of the car,

"I discovered an experiment." I struggled to keep up with him as he started walking, and joked,

"Well, that's kind of what they do here-" He gave me a look and I fell silent instantly,

"When we were last here… when I locked you in the lab, I had access to security cameras. I could see all of the highest security experiments and one of them caught my eye." Someone was ushering us through a door and then down a corridor, before typing a code into a keypad and opening the door,

"Sherlock, what's going o-" I froze, realising what I was looking at, "is that? Is that what I think it is?" He nodded, his eyes staring at the same thing as mine,

"They're trying to do what Victor did; they're trying to make a man, and they're very close to finished." We stepped further into the room, looking at the man lying on the table. His eyes were opened to reveal completely empty sockets, his lips only half formed from messily stitched together scraps of a mouth, one of his arms was lying at his side but not yet attached and his legs were made of nothing more than bone, the muscle and flesh having not been attached yet. It was easily the most disturbing thing I had ever seen, and I had been in a war. I looked up to say as much, and then I saw the look in Sherlock's eyes,

"Are you alright?"

"You're disgusted aren't you?" I nodded, knowing that even if I lied he would know,

"This was me, once upon a time. Victor used this same process to put me together; it wasn't just a matter of stitching together body parts. He built a frame from the skeleton of various bodies, to ensure I would be tall and well formed, and then he introduced the flesh slowly—with whatever he could acquire, and whatever was in good condition—and he began adding in organs. Most of my organs came from just one donated body, as well as much of my face, who also donated my… sexual organs, which is why my son and eventually Mycroft had some facial similarities. It also why Mycroft inherited my brain, the donor of those organs also provided my brain and he was quite brilliant, so Mycroft was very much my descendent – especially since I nurtured him." Sherlock's hand was running over the detached arm, a faraway look in his eyes, "this is how I was made. It was this process, this jigsaw puzzle; I was once as repulsive as this.

" I didn't say anything, I didn't know what to say, and he was the one who broke the silence again, "they have no right."

"What do you mean?"

"In approximately two weeks they will have created they're creature, he'll be finished but look at him. His scars are even more prominent than those I suffered, and his facial features not particularly artful or well matched, he is hideous and they'll attach him to a supply which will sustain his body and jolt him into life. Who knows if he'll come truly to life, as I did? Victor didn't know that I would fully wake up; he assumed I would be comatose for the entirety of my life and yet I became conscious and stumbled into a world of suffering. They might so the same thing to this pitiful creature, but what gives them the right to do that to him? To have him suffer as I have suffered. Nobody should experience such hardship and I refuse to let them do it someone else-"

"Sherlock, what are you… no, what are _we_ going to do about it?"

"The creator is currently being 'questioned' by Mycroft's men, over the murder of the body parts' donors. I am here to destroy him, before he can be born. I couldn't trust the job to anyone else." I rounded the lab table, to place a hand on his arm,

"Why did I need to be here for that?" He looked up at me, a surprising amount of emotion shining through in his eyes,

"I needed someone to be here, I didn't know what I would do. John, you must understand how sickening and deeply upsetting this is for me, to see someone like me is… it's terrifying and enthralling. I hate whoever did this, whoever made him, and I also… I don't want to take the life of one of my kind, I don't want to risk getting attached or trying to bring him into life, the loneliness might result in me doing something that I should not. And I feel guilty about depriving him of the chance of ever giving him life, it's the right thing to do but to abort his life before he can be born, it still leaves a mark, Do you understand that?" I nodded, and kept my hand where it was on his arm,

"I'll be here, don't worry." He nodded and then, picking up a scalpel, he began the slow process of undoing the work, all the while looking like he was about to be sick, I never let go through the process.


	47. 2011 - The end is nigh

**2011 – The end is nigh**

**Sherlock POV**

I woke to the sound of a voice somewhere in the flat, singing fairly loudly. I must have passed out from lack of sleep, as my body was aching as I wondered through the apartment. That was when I realised who was singing and I blinked slightly, before taking a few steps back to where I had just passed the bathroom door, standing and just staring at it for a minute.

John was singing in the shower. John was in the shower. John. Shower. Very hot shower, judging by the amount of steam that had filled the room - which I could see because the lock was broken and the door was slightly open. I froze, glancing in the mirror as I saw the slightly hazy figure in the glass. Flushed... soapy... naked, John.

The world might think that I am unaffected by such thoughts but that is very much not the case, I have simply ignored them for a very long time. My abstinence from sexual misdemeanours was a promise I made many years ago, after what I did to Victor's Elizabeth, because I realised on that night that sex is important, in the wrong hands it can cause great suffering and I knew that night my hands were certainly not meant for it. So I ignored all of my urges, and convinced myself that I would never do anything vaguely like that again… but then came my own Elizabeth, a woman who I could love and touch and though it was awkward at first, she had been desperate for me to touch her and to love her in a way that no-one had wanted me to in the past. So I had indulged her, and in the process I indulged myself.

After such a traumatic first time and then such a meaningful second, I could not stand to sully the lessons I had learnt or the pleasures I had felt. I locked it all away, I forced myself not to notice and whilst I had almost been taken in by the Woman, ultimately it was John who reignited those flames. It was fleeting at first, with thoughts of how his soft his hair looked or how I enjoyed the way his lips would quirk at the edge. I certainly didn't start by thinking him in a sexual way, it had never been my style, but slowly thoughts of just reaching out to touch him, to step into his personal space and to kiss him, all began to rise up in the back of my mind. So now that I was imagining John in the shower, I was overwhelmed.

I will admit it wasn't my best, or most subtle, tactic but ditching my clothes and wondering into the bathroom to sit down on the toilet seat certainly got his attention,

"What the Hell are you doing in here Sherlock?" He shrieked, covering himself with the shower curtain. I just smirked, reclining back and watching his eyes to flick down my body for a second, with definite pupil dilation and increased rate of breathing,

"I was wondering if you needed any help washing your back." His mouth fell open, and he was spluttering so suddenly and for so long that I wondered for a minute if I had broken him,

"Are you serious?"

"Not unless you want me to be. Although we could always just share the hot water, since everyone's panicking about something called Global Warming and how we have to save resources and electricity-"

"They mean by turning off lights when we leave rooms, sharing cars or walking to work, or by fitting solar panels. Not bloody sharing a shower!"

"Well, I could get in anyw-"

"Get out!"

He was still bright red when he got out of the shower ten minutes later, although I guessed this was from anger or embarrassment rather than simply the water being hot,

"What the Hell was that display about Sherlock?"

"I-"

"No, don't you say another bloody word. You know, don't you? That's what all this last week or so has been about, you're trying to trick me into admitting my feelings so you can lord it over me, you big arrogant sod-"

"John-"

"No, stop right there. My feelings aren't just something to stroke your ego-"

"John-"

"We're not going to have a quick screw in the shower, for your own damn amusement. Were there no cases, was that it? You needed to get your kicks elsewhere? Or worse, is it an experiment into how the human body acts when it's aroused or in love? Is that all my feelings are to you, a bloody experiment?"

"John, I didn't mean it like that-"

"So how did you mean it?"

"You haven't understood anything; you've taken it all the wrong way-"

"Oh yes, because I'm stupid! Stupid John doesn't understand anything; unlike me, Sherlock bloody Holmes, because I'm a genius and he's just an idiot. What was it about then? _Was_ it all just an experiment? _No hard feelings John," _he said, in an extremely unrealistic imitation, "_I was just testing how people act towards the people they've stupidly gone and fallen in love with_-"

I was covering his lips with mine before he could finish that sentence, kissing him with an urgency I'd never felt before and desperately trying to send my message in that kiss. He pulled back first, needing air and breathing raggedly, his hot breath warming my lips before he reached his hands up to bury them in my hair, pulling me back down into the kiss.

That night with Elizabeth could not compare with that night with John. I had loved her, but I needed John, I needed him more than anything. I felt the fluttering in my heart and I knew it before I could even tell him my true feelings, he had woken that part of me I'd been trying to rouse ever since my birth. It was warm and full of love for that man and just... alive, I felt alive. It was my soul, I knew it then. And that soul's counterpart, its giver and its receiver, was holding me in his arms and whispering his feelings. And that night was perfect.

He didn't wince slightly as he looked down at me, pitying me slightly as Elizabeth had when the crack of moonlight had illuminated my scars, though they had faded now. He didn't shy away from touching my scars but ran his hands over them with tenderness I'd never know, telling me that I was perfect. And for that one night, I felt I was. Because that night, I finally had my soul and that soul was called John Watson... and he was as perfect now that I knew everything about him as he had been from a distance, in that lab when we met. And though we never said the words, we both knew that we were finally loved.

If only it could have lasted…

Because two months later, just as we were finding our footing in our new relationship, we were brought a new case; a case involving two little children and good old-fashioned story tale villain.

**AN. Yay, we finally got down to romance but oh no! What's going to happen? **


	48. 2011 - A fall from grace

**͠2011 - A fall from grace**

**Sherlock POV**

Everything had been perfect, things had finally been going right and I was happy at last; every day I felt a little bit more alive and a little bit warmer inside, I even found that my roots no longer grew through with a multitude of colours as I remembered, my entire body seemed to be changing to that of a true person and in that process it had also begun ageing, I found a grey hair and a couple of wrinkles I'd never seen before. I was truly alive, I knew it, for the first time I could feel it in my heart – I was a human being, just like any of them. But although I'd sought humanity for so long, it was no longer the most important thing in my life, because the most important thing in my life was waking up beside me in our shared bed, and kissing me sweetly on the lips before heading out to the surgery, smiling at me from across the table as we ate in Angelo's.

But now my little bubble of perfect had been popped and the warm glow I had felt in my total satisfaction with my life and my partner had been doused in cold water. Once again, Moriarty and I were stood face to face, this time on top of a rooftop, my reputation in tatters and my enemy smirking,

"So you finally did it then? You found a way to be a real boy," he mocked, clasping his hands together and smiling sappily, "by falling in love." I smirked at the contempt in his voice,

"What's the matter, Moriarty? Afraid of being alone in the world, upset because now you're the only creature? Although, rather unlike me, you have no chance of redemption, no chance of gaining your soul-"

"They said the same about you. I'm sure Victor thought it the first time he looked on your scars and saw the monster he'd created. I'm sure Elizabeth thought it when you raped her-" I snarled, desperately to stop him as the images rose up,

"Stop-"

"That poor sweet little boy probably knew it as you choked the life out of him-"

"Stop it," I hissed, overwhelmed by the imaged; he didn't stop, his grin just became more malicious as he said,

"That family most definitely screamed it as they burnt at your hand-"

"Stop, stop it! They were mistakes!"

"So you keep telling yourself and anyone who can stand to listen, but you know that deep down you are still entirely to blame and you will never truly forgive yourself or be redeemed. Tell anyone else about them and they'll hunt you down with pitchforks and torches to chase you out of town. You may have a soul now but it is as blackened by your deeds as mine would. We're the same, why are you fighting me when we should be working together to fight them? To fight the world which shuns and ridicules us? We're not like them, we're better! We're stronger and older and wiser, we have the knowledge of giving and taking life. We are Gods that walk amongst them-"

"I won't help you, Moriarty, so stop this. I may have a side of me that regrets all of the things I have done, that still thinks I can only be accepted by our kind – the side that thinks we are alike – but appealing to it won't help you anymore. I'm stronger than that now. I know my place now, and it is with John. He accepts me and he forgives me for all of the bag things that I have done, which is all that I need; my place is at his side-"

"But for how much longer?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if he were dead, there would be no side to stand on."

I stared at him, shock and horror coursing through my body,

"No. You can't-"

"Oh but I can. Unless you come with me and help me make more of our kind, I'll kill everyone you care about-"

"John-?"

"Everyone-"

"Mrs Hudson... Lestrade?"

"Everyone. Unless you come with me. All I ask is for you to make me a small number of our kind, then we'll leave you alone-"

"I made that promise to Victor, when I asked for my bride; I told him that I would take her and leave the humans alone but I never intended to, I would always have tried to part of humanity, and you will always want to destroy it, it's what you were made to do. If I make more of us, you won't ever leave me in peace-"

"Okay, I won't, but at least John will be alive. You take a plunge off that building, fake your death so that no-one follows us or comes prodding after us with their ethics and their religion, bring their hatred and judgement, and you come with me. Make me just enough of them that they can grow and multiple unaided and maybe one day I'll let you come back to John. Otherwise, if you refuse, there'll be no-one left to come back to."

What choice did I have?

I was grateful that for once Moriarty afforded me a small decency and left me alone to type in the number and make the call. Relief flooded me when he picked up but my heart ached as I knew that this could be the last time we talked, although I'd fight tooth and nail to make sure that wasn't the case,

"Sherlock? What's going on? I'm coming in-"

"No, turn around and walk back the way you came right now."

"No, I'm coming in-"

"Just do as I ask, John. Please. If you ever loved me, do this one thing for me, go back the way you came," my voice broke in the back of my throat as I choked out the words, we had never explicitly said that we loved each other and now the words were to be forced out in the worst time imaginable, "please." He chuckled anxiously, trying to break the tense atmosphere,

"Of course I love you, you idiot. Why are you speaking in past tense?"

"Because you're not going to love me anymore, not after what I'm going to do."

"Stop it," he turned and I shouted out,

"Stop, right there," I said, to stop him. His voice was low as he responded,

"Of course I will still love you; I always will, Sherlock."

"Then do this for me."

"Fine, I'll go back- where to?"

"There, stop there, that will do. Now look up, I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh God." I could feel the tears coming now,

"I'm- well, let's just say I can't come down... at least not in a way that would enable us to continue this conversation."

"Sherlock, what's going on? Why are you up there-? Is this a plan to get out of trouble?"

"No, John, it's not a plan; it won't get me out of trouble, it'll probably make it worse. I'm in too deep, this wasn't planned but it's been a long time coming, almost two hundred years in fact." He was shaking his head, the movement tiny and barely noticeable over the distance,

"Why are you doing this, Sherlock? Why are you saying this?" I took a deep breathe, remembering the words that Rufus had said to me, just as he lay dying in no-man's land, as he was pleading with me to let his girl know he loved her,

"That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note."

"Leave a note? When? Wait, no, Sherlock. Stop it! We can come back from this. So, what if they think you're a fraud-?"

"It's not about that."

"Then tell me," he begged, "tell me what it's about."

"How long do you think it will be before they start digging and finding out whatever they can about me? They have a lot of back-story; almost forty years in fact, and it would be relatively easy to find people who come into it. I have known many people in my time; there were scientists, lecturers, students, ex-patients and soldiers, even fellow addicts, who knew me and who go back far enough that when the call goes up, it'll come out. They will know the truth about me and they'll tell the world, everyone has a price for their information-"

"Nobody's come forward yet-"

I scoffed, he was so naïve. Did he honestly believe that?

"Plenty have, John, but none of them have been fruitful yet. One by one they've started the alarm bells, recognising me in the papers or from your blog, after they've realised that they knew me thirty, forty, even fifty or more years ago, and I'm identical to how I was. And they've gone to the police or the government or just talked on the internet. Before not it was dismissed as paranoia and ignored. Mycroft's been able to keep a tight handle on everything that's been happening but now... now there will be a sudden influx of people. Years of history and relationships, will crawl out of the cracks for a price and for ten minutes in the spotlight and they'll all be crying out the same story. My past cannot be hidden anymore, the press have taken hold. Soon, they'll know who… and what I am."

"It doesn't matter; they'll accept you eventually-"

That was heart-breaking, that he could still believe that, that in his heart he still saw the goodness in people. He hadn't seen their ugly sides; he had seen the soldiers, similar to the men I remembered from the early twentieth century, the heroes fighting side by side and accepting their comrades. He was one of them; he saw the good and justice even through the ugliness of war. He hadn't seen the men who'd come before him, before Lestrade and Mycroft. He hadn't lived every day with the loathing and the evil and the darkness, he saw the good. I saw the truth.

"No, they won't John. You have only been near me for just over a year. You love me, and therefore you are blind to who I really am, my true past, you look past it to see the good but it is still there. If you looked at me the way the others do, you would see the darkness and the suffering. You have not lived with being shunned every day for two hundred years as I did, you don't know the cruelty of man. Give them an inch and they'll take a mile, run away on it and scream or turn and whip you with it. The best I can hope for is Mycroft getting me out of the country, hiding me for years until they forget or he can quieten it down. But even he would be powerless against the uproar my very existence—my very nature, in fact—could cause. Maybe I won't have to jump now, maybe I try to keep living and instead they'll finally finish what they tried all those years ago and beat me so hard that I finally die... or maybe it will just be scientists locking me away for the rest of my life-"

"But that could be forever, Sherlock!"

"No, not anymore. I was going to tell you but I wasn't sure, it's been a recent change in the past two months. I've realised of late that you've done more for me than you realise. I love you John, you've brought me to life. My heart beats for you now; you gave me my soul-"

"I thought we weren't sure if that a metaphorical change-"

"No John, my soul is a tangible thing – it's something that I was missing but now? Now it's there, it's alive and so am I. I've been aging recently, in the past few months since we forged our relationship, I found a grey hair and wrinkles, I'm human... I'm-"

"You're mortal?"

"I'm mortal and I'm breakable and I'm so very tired John. I don't want to go on like this anymore, looking at my face in the mirror every day and still seeing what I first saw, even if it's an illusion now. I still feel the shame and guilt of my past every day and I'm exhausted, I'm tired of hiding who I am and always being afraid of someone finding the truth. I should have done this long ago, when I killed my first friend. I should have taken myself out of the world but I was stubborn and young and naïve. I believed that people would change or that I would change, and people died because I was too afraid to do what would have been right and just end my life before I could do anymore damage-"

"Stop it, Sherlock. Please, just stop it. I don't blame you, I truly don't, and if the others knew you like I do then then they wouldn't blame you either! You're a good man. It was a long time ago, you're a different man and you're forgiven and you're loved. God help me, you're so very loved Sherlock. I can't- I can't lose you, Sherlock. If you jump you won't just be sacrificing the soul I gave you but you'll by taking mine with it because I can't," his voice cracked, wavering so much that I wished I could end this and go done there to him, to hold him close for the rest of our lives as we grew old together. His voice was no more than a broken whisper as he continued, "I can't do it, Sherlock, don't make me do it because I_ can't_ bloody live without you."

I was crying now, just one tear falling down my chin, a hateful reminder that I was human now, that I had opened my heart and gotten everything I had ever wanted and it was being torn away from me again,

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. But I have to do this. I love you, John, I love you more than I ever thought I could love someone and I am so very sorry."

"No, Sherlo-"

I thrust the phone away from me, unable to listen to his heartbreak and cries of distress a second longer. I took a second to compose myself and then, seeing him trying to move forwards, and approaching the spot where I couldn't possibly have him stand or he'd know the truth, I jumped.

And I was flying.

But then there was no lift, there was only sharp wind against my face and the flail of my flightless limbs, and instead I was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling from grace.

The perfect metaphor for my predicament. But I wasn't thinking of my shattered reputation, of people discovering the truth about me, or of their hatred.

I thought only of John.

And it was worth it.

I had fallen for him, for his smiles and his good heart... and now I was falling for him.

For John.

**An. ... so... who hates me right now? *raises own hand* **


	49. 2011 - Torturous Scars

**Warning: this chapter may be upsetting, due to elements of torture. The rating has been changed to T.**

**2011 - Torturous scars**

**Sherlock POV**

Pain so intense that it felt like a fire ravaging my skin, like scalding nails being forced into the bone over long forgotten scars, was torturing every part of me that it could touch. It was forcing me to bite down on my lip until it drew blood, to keep from screaming. I wouldn't give my tormentor that satisfaction, I had suffered pain which was just as bad, often worse, in the Freak Show and I had only screamed at the start, then I'd learnt to contain it. The red hot poker that was being forced into my thigh was retracted, the nameless goon looking to Moriarty for approval. The madman nodded, before looking at me with his silent question, I shook my head for what felt like the thousandth time today, my head feeling heavy from the pain and exhaustion as I panted, trying to suppress the pain,

"I won't do it."

Black pupils disappeared behind narrowing eyelids, his eyes becoming nothing but slits of pure fury that rushed like tumultuous waters into his piercing eyes, his tone ice cold and daring,

"Don't test me Sherlock." I chuckled, looking up at him in defiance,

"I promised that I would fake my death and come here with you, to keep John safe, but I refuse to make more of our… of _your_ kind."

"Oh no, Sherlock, you had it right first time. No matter how much you like to think that you and I are different, you know we aren't. Make more of our kind, Sherlock, don't make me ask again." A meaty fist shot out, colliding with my face with such force that my head whipped round, followed by the rest of my body and the chair I was tied down to. I landed with a clatter, my face smashing into the ground and my nose most likely breaking, before the chair was pulled upright. I spat the blood and a chipped bit of tooth into his smirking face, chuckling at I stained a large spot on his white shirt. He looked at his goon, "yet the poker, and make sure that this time it's _white_ hot."

I watched as Moriarty's man crossed to the fire, still clutching the poker, which he'd just removed from where it had been lightly embedded into my skin. I could deduce that the man had been hired for ability in hand-to-hand combat—in fact I believe he was an ex-member of Mycroft's secret service—but that didn't mean his abilities to torture weren't up to scratch. He was an inventive and sadistic man, evidently the reason behind his recruitment to work for the sick bastard stood beside him, and he certainly enabled Moriarty to stand back and keep his own hands clean. Though, that shirt was certainly ruined.

I forced the lump in my throat down, keeping my gaze steady and my face impassive as I watched him. He held the tip of the poker into the fire, all of us watching in a sick fascination as the metal slowly transitioned from black to a glowing red and then a painful yellow and then finally he removed it from the fire. Once more, he looked to Moriarty for confirmation and, upon receiving it, he crossing back to me and placed the poker on a small stand next to his other torture tools. Moriarty leant over, getting down to eye-level and said sweetly, "now, Sherlock. I'm going to ask you again... will you go over to that lab table and do as I ask?"

"I'd rather let you stick me in that fire."

Moriarty sighed, as if he was reluctant to do what he was about to,

"Carl, you know what to do." I saw the flash of scissors and flinched, expecting the bite of their blades against my skin, but it never came. Instead, they hacked away at the hair on my head. He appeared to be following a pre-planned route, twisting the blade this way and that, as if he was following a carefully drawn line... which I soon realised he was. He was following the now very faint scar that ran from the top right hand side of my lip, all the way up and over the top down to the crown, exposing the tiny white line that marked the skin, "one last chance, Sherlock."

The breath caught in my throat as I realised what was about to happen; I was scared, I had never been so terrified in my life in fact. A smirk crossed his face when he heard that noise, and saw that I was trying to hide the fear from my expression, before he reached and forced my chin up. He received no reply, just a hateful look, and then he sighed and nodded to Carl. The former spy then picked up the abandoned poker and, lining it up precisely, pressed it to the top of my lip. I felt the searing pain so intensely that for a second I didn't know if it was burning hot or freezing cold, I only knew that it was an intense bite, and then he pushed down on the sharpened edge and began to bury the poker into the skin. I was struck first by the noise, the horrifying sizzle, and then the smell of roasting skin that was so sickening strong that my head spun and spots appeared on my vision. The metal was hitting the bones of my nose and then my cheek and my skull as he moved upwards. It was excruciating, I thought that I had felt the peak of pain when I was younger, when I was whipped, but my body was weak and mortal now, so that why he pressed down and found nerves, it was like nothing I had ever felt.

I couldn't fight the shout of pain then, as he dragged the poker across and through the skin and traced the scar, emphasising and opening old wounds and leaving a trail of fire in its path. Finally, when I could no longer hold back the screams of pain and tears sprouted from my eyes, the salt burning the open wounds, he pulled the poker away from the end of the scar, clicking his tongue approvingly.

I knew that, if I looked in the mirror, the burns would be a deep and angry red, blistering and ugly. They might even be more repugnant than the original scars in their mixture of charred and ruined skin, but identical in their pattern. They were far more painful, however. The hand which had been supporting my forehead, the only thing that stopped me from falling forwards and into unconsciousness, released me and instantly my entire head dropped and I was filled with shame and horror. It didn't end there; they stayed far into the early hours of the morning to make sure that every mark that I had been born with was etched back into my skin. They destroyed my face, and then my torso and my arms and my legs until I was so exhausted and raw that I wished the fall had been real, that I had really died. My entire body felt like it had fallen into the place where it truly belonged, the pits of hell.

There was a chuckle next to my ear and then lips practically pressed to the lobe, brushing the skin as Moriarty whispered,

"Oh how the mighty have fallen. Tell me that you're better than me now; tell me that you're a man, that you're one of them." I simply hung my head, shutting my eyes against the burn in my cheeks, born of something entirely different from a fiery poker. My veins were filled with nothing but pure humiliation and anger, I longed to simaltaneously lash out and to curl up into a ball and die. I couldn't look up at him, not until he forced my chin up with a crooked finger and made me to look into his eyes, which were filled with a sadistic pleasure. "Tell me that you are not that same creature you once were." I couldn't, not anymore, he had beaten me. God it was humiliating to admit it but he knew my weakness and now it was laid in the open for all to see, "you are one of my kind, and never forget it. We are brothers. Men will not accept you like this, you are alone and outcast again. So make us a society where we can live without prejudice."

I shook my head, fighting the urge to whimper from the pain of just that small movement,

"I won't- John will take me back-"

"Will he? He's never seen you as you really are, he only knows the man and the beauty that followed your dark days. Why would he love a hideous beast with scars like these? I've done you a favour Sherlock. I've returned you to your former glory, you are exactly as you were made to be, if Victor were here he wouldn't find a single change to your appearance. You're one of us, never forget that, you're better than men and so much stronger. Now John will see the truth, he'll reject you, now he's seen who you really are. Do yourself a favour, make yourself people who can love you because John won't. Oh, and if that isn't enough persuasion to do as I ask, well... let's just say that my snipers can reach him, anytime and anyplace. You want to dig your heels in and be stubborn? Fine, I'll keep torturing you, but it's only a matter of time before I go after, John. Just remember that. I'll see you in the morning, Sherlock. Come Carl, I need to buy a new suit; he appears to have stained this one."

I was alone again, with my untreated wounds and my broken pride, desperately fighting tears as I stared at the wall and thought of my bleak prospects. There was no way out of this; no-one was coming for me, I was dead to them, they didn't know I was here. There was nothing I could do. People would die for Moriarty's obsession, I had no doubt it would be murdered bodies which would provide me with the materials necessary to create more of our kind, but how many I didn't know. These creatures would be born with the brains of adults but blank as a canvas, just as I had been at the start, soaking up everything the old man taught me. Impressionable and young, desperate for attention and all too happy to do as Moriarty asked.

If I did this, I would be creating even more advanced versions of us, creatures which were carefully crafted to ensure they had none of the flaws that I had in my appearance and none of the flaws that Moriarty suffered from in his mind. They would be _perfect._ Perfect soldiers. Perfect assassins, without conscience and without any traces because they would have no known identities, no pesky fingerprints on file, and no history. Moriarty would train them to think like him and they'd be undetectable amongst men, identical except that they were stronger and immortal. And they would be unstoppable.

And how many would I make? Even if I only made a few, they could reproduce or Moriarty would see how I completed my work, he'd know how to carry it on if I stopped... it was limitless, he could make an army. He could conquer the world and it would be my fault.

But, even as I thought all of this, I thought of John. Just going about his business, rebuilding his life after I'd scarred it with my very presence, carrying on... I could see him going to work or just walking along the street, a sniper at his heel. What were the dangers to the Human race compared to the dangers to my John? The whole world could crash and burn but so long as John would live another day, it was a sacrifice I was willing to make… because as least my world would survive. I would make a thousand of my kind if it meant that John would live because so long as John was out there I could keep going, I could carry on in my Hell because I knew my angel was out there, thinking of me, and maybe there for me to return to if I got the opportunity.

So there was only one answer I could give when Moriarty returned, his face contorted into an expectant grin,

"When do I begin?"


	50. 2011 - The laboratory of Eden

**AN. I've changed the rating on this story to T and just want to warn you guys that this chapter is rather disturbing, due to later elements regarding murder. Hopefully, this will not offend and you will continue to enjoy the story.**

**2011 - The laboratory of Eden**

**Sherlock POV**

Measure. Weigh. Number. Mark. Note. Repeat with new body part.

It was a gruelling process, emotionally and physically; the work had begun a week ago and already I was getting sick of looking at the bits and pieces I was slowly removing from the bodies and filing away in the fridge, keeping a very carefully planned index of every body part. The body parts that had once held a fascination for me – because they were the key to my past – were now mundane and sickening. Every day was the same thing; wake in the tiny windowless bedroom, which was locked overnight, carefully tend to the healing burns across my face and body – I'd stitched some of the deepest groves with greater precision than Victor's crude knots of thread so hopefully the damage was reduced – with antiseptic, have a shower, eat the food pushed through a slate in my door and be released from my room.

I would then be escorted to the lab, where Moriarty had provided me with everything that I could need, to prepare for my day. This day would then consist of looking at the bodies that were brought in, ignoring the fact that the bullets and stab-wounds were made purely with the intention of murdering these people and bringing them to my slab; I would take notes, inspect them for every detail necessary, take the exact dimensions and prepare them for dissection. Moriarty had made sure that whoever was providing the bodies did as little damage as possible and the victims were as similar in height, skin colour and weight as possible. Once all of the measurements were taken, the body parts were then inspected for damage, decay and disease and I would spend the day separating them from their owner, then bagging, labelling and placing them in the refrigerator.

It quickly became a routine until finally my fridge was filled with parts waiting to be mixed and matched to form new people, all coming from eight originals. Moriarty rarely checked on me at this stage so I was alone for most of the day except for a guard at the door. It was when I started to assemble his new creatures that he became fascinated, coming in every hour and checking my documentation, asking more questions than I was willing to answer – I wouldn't answer any in fact, I simply ignored him and carried on working.

And then three months into my captivity, the first specimen was finished. I almost felt a rush of pride, this was my work and it was skilled and perfect. As horrifying as the work was... it was also fascinating, it was the culmination of all of my own scientific research from the past two hundred years, mixed with my father's, and it quickly became an obsession. Each night I would go to bed thinking about how to make the stitching neater or how one set of limbs would work best with another torso until it became a joy to work, to have something to focus on, to forget about John and to distract myself.

When at last I had finished her, my first specimen, I was filled with pride. It was like looking on my own daughter. I had created her. She had consisted of the body parts of the four female 'donations' that I'd received. Her face, whilst a careful mixture of features from each body, was designed so as to optimise the artificial symmetry I had made for her face and forge the beautiful blonde haired creature. The stitching I had used, though extensive, was not as severe as Victor's and in a few months would fade to leave the flawless girl that I had created.

She reminded me of my bride, the same pale skin and lifeless eyes but animate, if not with the spark of life still needed to fully breathe life into her. She could walk slowly and would respond to movement by turning her head, every movement careful and measured and oh so graceful, so very different to my own first steps.

But then she was taken away by Moriarty. He wanted me to focus on the others, so he took her away and filled me with an unexpected feeling of anguish. I just wanted her back, to protect her and to teach her, to give her life. I felt like a mother whose new born had been taken by the doctors and was now out of sight. I didn't see her after that, he was certain that if I had her then I would bring her to life and escape, never to finish the others. So he stole her away and as the others were created he took them too, taking them away to the far corners of the building we were being held in.

Gradually, within the space of a few months, the work progressed and they took shape. There was a very tall redheaded girl who looked to be no more than eleven with skin as freckled as her face was lovely, the first beautiful blonde and a willowy dark haired beauty. The men consisted of a tall man with blonde hair and every similarity to Adonis, a brunette with a rugged muscular appeal and a dark haired man with almost pixie-like features, sharp and high cheek boned in a way that I was often described. Each time they became more perfect, more artful; I felt quite bitter when I saw the miniscule stitches I left, they had been lucky. If only Victor had done this for me... if only my scars would heal again. I was back to the start, back to two hundred years ago, and they were racing ahead of me and leaving me behind, beautiful and innocent, a clean slate without sin.

And then, just as I was certain that he would bring them back and allow me to finish my work by bringing them to life... he threw a curveball at me. He brought in new parts, laid them out on the table and grinned at me expectantly. I thought he simply wanted me to repeat the cycle, to make another creature to complete his set of pale-skinned beauties but the way he smirked, as the boxes were brought in, suggested otherwise,

"I thought we could see just how well you could work on a slightly smaller sample. It will be quite a deal difficult, but the result will be a mind that's even easier to mould when achieved."

"What do you mean?" He smirked, leaving me alone in the lab with the cooler boxes, calling back over his shoulder,

"This one was a little bit defective, we stole the body parts from some crime scenes but they were already taken apart for you. We picked the best from the various victims."

I was almost sick as I looked at what was in the box... they were body parts from _infants,_ no more than eight months old judging by the size. He wanted me to construct him a child, when he already knew that I despised making him adults, and it sickened me. But I couldn't say no, partially because of John and partially because... these children had been killed at such an early age, they deserved another chance to live, to grow older and to learn. No matter how if had to come to light.

So I did as he told me and constructed the child. As he had predicted, it was more difficult this time; the limbs were crudely severed and mutilated by what appeared to be a blunt knife, making me shudder at the thought of how the children—whose bodies these came from—had died. The adults' parts had been carefully and surgically removed by my trained hand with accuracy and precision, rather than lopped off, so the skin had been less torn and the edges less jagged. I had to contend with trying to pull it together when it was so destroyed, and I also had to deal with the fact that the stitching was more difficult. The skin was more delicate and less well preserved and the limbs were so small that the stitching looked crude, leaving scars far more reminiscent of mine than my previous creatures'.

But finally, six months after I had fallen from St Bart's hospital's roof, I put down my scalpel and looked down at a tiny cherubic child. I barely even saw the scars, in my eyes he was perfection; a mixture of pale skin, dark curls, and icy blue eyes. Moriarty had been very deliberate in choosing these parts, combining them with a short stature and button nose that reminded me of exactly who and what I had lost – a reminder which came in the most brutal way.

He was crawling around now, looking up at me with eyes as wide as saucers and a blank stare that almost frightened me, there was something about seeing that look from a child that was infinitely more terrifying than from an adult. Moriarty came looking to take the child but I told him that I wasn't finished, I unpicked a small section of stitching to trick him... and then – when he left – I collected my equipment, grabbed anything that we might need and looked at him. I gently took his face in my hands, tipping his face up to look at me as I pushed the curls out of his wide, unseeing eyes and spoke to him,

"I'm not going to let Moriarty get his talons into you. I promise you. We're going to get away from here, right now, because I refuse to let him turn you into a monster… or to make you into what I was. I'm going to protect you no matter what, I'm going to be the father and teacher to you that Victor never was to me. I won't make the mistakes of my father; John gave me a soul and I gladly give it to you, you are loved and you're going to take it and be _human_. You deserve to live, to be free and to be cared for, and I won't let Moriarty turn you into a solider or an assassin. You're worth so much more than that and I'm going to make you into something that I will be proud to call my child, because I lost the chance to be a father and I won't make that mistake again. If you can hear any of this, then know that I promise to love you and keep you safe."

He didn't reply, I had never expected him to, he just looked up at me with an unfathomable expression. I am sure that it was simply sentiment, that it was imagined, but I thought for a moment that I saw a spark. It was the same spark and the same breathe of life that I am sure I saw in myself, the day that I woke up John's arms for the first time. Obviously this spark had a different source, my love for my creation, but I am sure that it was there. I even think he understood it, that he was in there and he was listening.


	51. 2011 - Running

**2011 - Running**

**Sherlock POV**

I grabbed the closest thing I could find to wrap him in; if my estimations, and the dates on my paperwork, had been correct then it would be December outside and it would too cold for a toddler to be exposed to the air. Also, a man running around London with a naked toddler would likely get some unwanted attention. I found a few towels and used them to bundle around his limp, unresponsive form, before pulling him to my chest and grabbing my notes on my way out. The feeling of holding a tiny body, the weight and warmth of it, took my back to the days when Mycroft was still cute and tolerable, although I refused to make the same mistakes raising this baby as I had when I raised Mycroft. I didn't want him to hate me, I didn't want to lose him as I had Mycroft.

His eyes were peering out at me through the blanket, the lack of emotion deeply aggravating, and I wished that I could use my equipment to wake him up but I knew that Moriarty's cameras were watching, and if he found out the secret of how to animate my other creations then God knows what would happen. I sighed, holding him tighter and pushing through the door and out into the hallway. Usually I was escorted down to the end of the corridor on my right, where I would be taken to my bedroom, but this time I went left and headed for the locked door at the other end, figuring out the code to unlock it was simple. It was the date of my fall; Moriarty was toying with me, he wanted to see if I could guess it correctly. I imagine that he had assumed that I wouldn't try to escape, because my need to stay here and keep John safe would overwhelm my need to do the same for the child. It didn't, not anymore. John could protect himself, at least to a degree, but the boy in my arms couldn't. He was utterly alone and vulnerable, he needed me and I had to deliver. It was a different type of love to what I felt for John but it was just as strong and it _had_ to be acted upon.

The hallways were completely silent, except for the echo of my footsteps, as I dodged around corners and ducked into the shadows to hide from the guards that patrolled the darkness. It wouldn't be long before someone discovered that I was missing and they would start looking for me.

After about ten minutes of searching, as he was getting heavy in my arms and I was beginning to worry that we would get caught at any second, I finally found my way through the corridors and to a ground floor window which was unlocked. I checked outside, ensuring that there was no-one to see us, and then slipped through and ran straight for the chainmail fence. Pausing only to readjust him in my arms, I climbed up and over, dropping to the other side lightly and sprinting as someone called out my name. I didn't stop, I didn't look over my shoulder, I just ran. There was a car about two streets away from the house and, after a brief moment to debate, I picked the lock—ignoring the screech of the alarm in the silence of the night—and jumped in. I drove away with a screech of tires and my son clutched to my chest, because we didn't have a car-seat, as we sped away.

I didn't realise just how much I missed the constant movement and light of London until I had been deprived of it for more than six months. The monotony and over-familiarity of the laboratory had trapped me and bored me near to death, and suddenly there was room and changing landscape and excitement. Every street and every road was still as familiar as it had been when I left but it had the freshness and the excitement of my first visit, and more importantly… it had _John. _Baker Street wasn't far from where I had been kept captive, in the Docklands area, and walking up to that familiar door—after abandoning the getaway vehicle ten minutes away—I felt an elation like nothing else rise up in my chest. Being so close to it, after so long, made me realise just how cold the stab of homesickness had been in the pit of my stomach, my heart leaping into my throat. I had pushed all of my feelings down when I first stepped into my lab, because it simply hurt too much, and then they had been buried by the new love and pride I felt over my creations, particularly my son. Now, all of my feelings for Baker Street and its occupants rose to the surface like a tidal wave that crashed down upon me. The man I loved was, hopefully, just a few metres away and now we were separated by nothing more than a couple of knocks and a thin piece of wood.

Which is why it hurt when I realised I couldn't go in. Not yet. It was too dangerous for all of us, Moriarty would come looking for us and Baker Street would be the obvious place to go. Besides, I couldn't just walk in with a comatose toddler and expect John not to keel over on the spot. I would have to attend to and look after my son first, for a little while, and make sure that Mycroft understood what he needed to do to keep us all safe in the meantime. So, with a heavy heart, I drank in the sight of my beloved 221B—ignoring the shadow of someone walking past a curtain because it just hurt too damn much to be so close and yet so far—I turned and walked away.

I ducked my head as I walked past Speedy's café, because I had seen a few people loitering inside and looking like they hadn't been home for some time. There were the remains of signs and newspapers littering the street, all of which were plastered with my name, and I knew from Moriarty that the world had exploded with the known of my truth. The people in the café were clearly protestors of some sort and since I didn't know if they were on my side, I didn't really think they would be, they were a threat that I needed to get away from quickly. I wouldn't put the boy, whose life I had promised to protect with my own, at risk because of my own mistakes. The walk back to the car was far slower and more reluctant than the one to my front door had been. A few women tried to stop me, to look at the toddler in my arms and cluck and fawn over him as women always want to do, but I was far too worried about their reactions to allow it. For one, he was so unresponsive that they might assume he was dead—which was a reasonable assumption if you saw the blank look in his eyes—and for another we were both scarred and I couldn't risk them reacting badly and screaming. On one occasion, I wasn't quite quick enough and my scarf fell aside to reveal my scars, and her jaw dropped open as if she was about to recognise me or scream. I just pulled the scarf back up to cover my face and continued to walk, slightly more quickly and with the small form held even tighter to my frantically beating heart. I pulled the blanket around him tighter, to cover him more completely. I couldn't trust the world to see him, not yet, because I refused to let it treat him in the same that it had me. Things would be different for him.

I knew where I was going without even having to think about it, I was returning to the safe haven of my past, the place where I had hidden away for years on end. It was an automatic choice, and it was made all the more important because Moriarty didn't know its location. When Mycroft had gifted me my old home back, he had ensured that its previous owners' name—my name and Victor's name—were struck from the records. He had had the names on the deed changed to alibis and he had made it as untraceable as you can possibly make a house, going so far as to remove it from maps and local records and blueprints. Although, I think that had been done because it had been used for a very short time, whilst empty, as a safe house for politicians or important people who were under the protection of the secret services. The ability to offer up a secret house had been one of his ways of getting into superiors' good books to attain a promotion many years ago, and he had been free return it to me when they felt that they had used it as many times as was safe.

Pulling up onto the driveway of the now broken down, dirty and cold house, I sighed. It was a place of many good memories but the day that I had left had hardly been a good one. I had thought I was never coming back, it was the place where Mycroft had hurt me and it was the last time I saw Mummy before her death. I still remembered which of the pebbles at the end of the garden was covering the spare key and I let the both of us in with ease, breathing in the old but familiar smell that I had inhaled every day for so many years. It was exactly as I remembered it, if older and dustier, and I went straight up to my old study and lit a fire to protect us from the freezing cold of the December night. I placed my son on the desk, smiling as I remembered the disastrous experiment that Mycroft and I had conducted on that very spot forty years previously. I looked at the little boy, who looked nothing like the last little boy in that spot, and promised myself that we would make many more memories that were as happy as that one, although hopefully less terrifying because I had thought Mycroft was seriously injured for a moment. I was going to fill his life with all of the happiness that Mycroft's childhood had had but I wouldn't make the same mistakes, I would be truthful with him and I would spend more time with him than I had with Mycroft, I would be better this time… and where there were gaps in my knowledge and my compassion, I had John to fill them - just as mummy had done many years ago.

I sighed and then set about rifling through the trunk I had left behind years ago, filled with the outdated equipment that I had built years ago. The rest of the evening was spent adapting and updating them, as well as making sure that it would all work exactly as planned. He never turned his head to watch, he just continued to stare at the wall blankly, which spurred me on. I worked all through the night and the next day until, as dawn was breaking two days after our escape, I was finished. Gently, I began attaching the electrodes to his skin and preparing, double checking my notes and praying that nothing went wrong. When all was complete, and I could no longer put it off, I ran a hand through his curls and whispered a promise that it would work, before beginnning the process of animating my creation.

The crackle of electricity was thick in the air, coursing through his tiny body and leaping out in sparks and white broken tendrils; it was as if they remembered me from when I was born, and wanted to welcome their old friend back into the jolting embrace of the electricity. His whole body convulsed, tiny limbs jerking and his blank eyes screwed. I couldn't even watch, as I waited the exact amount of time and then shut the switch off. As soon as I did so, his eyes flew open and he tumbled from the desk so suddenly that I barely had time to catch him.

For a horrifying minute, I worried that it had not worked. I entertained the possibility that I had calculated the voltages wrong or not used the right amount, that the carefully designed patterns of increasing and decreasing voltage were wrong. I feared that I hadn't used enough to wake him and jumpstart his brain... or worse that I had used too much and done irreversible damage. I was terrified that he'd never wake and that I'd ruined my beloved creation.

Relief and joy filled me when suddenly my arms were filled with a jumping, shivering body. His limbs and fingers were flexing and then his body went as stiff and straight as plank, stretched out and trembling - with all his limbs held tightly at his side - in my arms. It was like trying to hold a tiny version of myself, when I first woke. His movements were exactly the same as how I remembered I had first moved and lain on the floor after I fell, from the membrane that had been my womb, into the world. Though the memory was blurred by time and the memories of what had happened in the days that followed.

He writhed in my arms; every so often he would get out a gasp or a squeak, looking pained and unwieldy in his new body, as he was born in my very arms and woke to an unfamiliar world. I couldn't help but stare down at the tiny form in utter amazement, enraptured by the sight of my beautiful son and desperate to wipe the pain and confusion from his screwed up little face. Huge blue eyes snapped up to my face and looked at me, widening slightly as he grunted in surprise.

His limbs flailed slightly, as if he was trying to reach towards me but his arm kept flying off in the opposite direction. He whined, looking upset and confused by his lack of control. The string of sounds that fell from his lips consisted of a variety of slurred grunts and endearing clicks and whimpers, as he tried to understand his body. He began to shake with giggles as he heard the sound of his voice for the first time, a high peal of laughter and happiness at the funny noise.

I smiled warmly down at him, a look that I usually reserved for when John said something that made me laugh. Gently, I carried him with me into my old bedroom, where I had set up Mycroft's old crib, and laid him down on my bed, so that if he jolted or twitched again - or tried to move too quickly - he wouldn't fall from such a great height as my desk and it would be onto something soft. He kept toppling over to the side and I would have to keep correcting him until slowly he began to understand the weight of his head and the way to hold himself until finally he was upright, looking pleased with his accomplishment as he blinked up at me. His eyes seemed to suddenly register that I was there rather than sliding over me, without seeing. They engaged me with a brightness and intelligence that longed to be explored and nurtured, as I whispered so as to not startle him,

"Hello, Victor."

A tiny podgy fist reached out, grabbing at my shirt, before his high voice slurred out, the sounds sloppy from lack of practice,

"H-H-Hel-Hel-o." I nodded in encouragement, pride filling me as I pointed to myself,

"I'm Sherlock," I moved my finger to gently tap on the end of his button nose, "you're Victor." It had seemed a logical leap to name him as such, the memory of my father being so fresh in my mind after returning to his house. Besides, it seemed like a salute to my genius father, that my creation be named for my creator, the man who I admired so desperately a long time ago,

"Vicwa?" His face screwed up again and for a second I worried he was in pain, until he began to repeat his name over and over, making me realise that he seemed to be trying to mentally file it away, so he wouldn't forget it. He seemed to have picked up the two words presented to him with ease, clearly the emptiness of his mind was begging to be filled, and then he began to chirp and hold out his hands to me, ""Shelo! Shelo!"

"I'm here, Victor." I took him in my arms, sitting on the bed with the boy in my lap. Already, his head was growing heavy and dropping against my chest and, as if just a few minutes of learning had exhausted him, suddenly he was snoring into my chest. I began to realise just how exhausted I was, having spent three days without sleeping or eating, and I stood up enough to pull away a corner of the duvet, slipping into the familiar depths of my old bed, with Victor held tightly to my chest. As soon as my head hit the pillow, and Victor's fists balled up in my shirt, I was asleep.

That night my head filled with dreams of John, and Victor, and of the other home I desperately wanted to return to.

**AN. I know, I've been horribly cruel to you guys of later (what can I say? I've been learning from Moffat clearly). So I hope this offering of fluff and happiness is accepted. Now, would you rather have a sweet parenting chapter next or would you like me to try and make you all cry by visiting John?**


	52. 2012 - Let's have dinner

**2011 - Let's have dinner**

**John POV**

Pouring myself a cup of tea, I crossed to where I'd left the pile of papers on the arm of my chair, growling slightly in frustration at the pain in my leg and gradually returning limp that slowed my progress from the kitchen. The tremble of PTSD had returned with a vengeance and was making my tea shiver in its cup and spill tiny amounts over the sides and into the saucer. I sank into the depths of the chair, sparing only one glance at the lonely chair across from me, before I returned to the pile at my side. I carefully placed the tea at a distance away from it and wiped my hands to prevent anything ruining the paper. The scraps and sheets were creased and worn now from fingertips running over them, smoothing or simply moving them or just holding them, all my own fingertips of course. I didn't let anyone else touch the papers, these were Sherlock's private possessions – the sketches and pictures diagrams from his darkest days - and he'd chosen to share them only with me. I carried the only photograph of him from before 1945 tucked in my pocket at all times to make sure no press could get their grubby fingers on it and print it for the world to see. A few journalists had tried to get hold of all the information I held on Sherlock's past but I blocked them at every single turn, locking it away and keeping it all safe. Only three people left in this world were privileged enough to get access to this information besides me; Mycroft, Greg and Mrs Hudson.

Exactly five months and two weeks ago, two weeks after he… after he jumped; the world had seemed to explode with information, and with a screeching insistence for the truth. Sherlock had easily been proven innocent of being in any way involved in the kidnaps or any other criminal activity in the past century but his predictions on the roof had been all too accurate. One journalist, Kitty Reilly, was all it took and the whole spider's web had unravelled. Suddenly the truth came out; everything... every crime, every detail, they all knew what he was and what he had done. Revealing his life with Mycroft had revealed facts dating back to the fifties. It was only a short leap to find his hospital work before then, his work with the men who came home disfigured was oddly touching and a few had left messages in case he ever looked them up. All of them said how thankful they were for having a doctor who knew how they felt and treated them as equals rather than patients, and then after that the press found his time in the army. I knew he had fought in the Somme, but I never knew that he was a hero; he had never tried to play the hero and yet he had saved many lives that day, even after being shot, and had a bloody Victoria Cross for God sake. He had saved ten comrades, saved ten people… which is more lives saved then he had taken, at least going a short way to redeeming him in the eyes of the public for his previous crimes. They used his enlistment information, Private Tommy Frankenstein, to track him back to the woman he had loved – who spent her final days muddled by Dementia and telling the tale of her first love, the biological father of her son. And then they had found out about the freak-sow, the murder of his 'owner' which he had been blamed for and with it they found the information of the Frankenstein's dirty little secret and all of Sherlock's crimes.

The day I opened the paper and saw the huge blown up freak-show poster with Sherlock's old face magnified for all to see, followed by a six page exposé on "Sherlock Holmes: man or monster?" was the day I stopped leaving 221B. It was the day I shut off all communication with the outside world, which had been thoroughly divided. A man who had been created from body parts and brought to life artificially, like some horrific science fiction or horror movie... people didn't know what to think.

Some people sent notes giving their support, people camped outside the flat – some supporting him, holding banners and saying that he was forgiven for his sins as they prayed for him, that he deserved happiness and peace... some were not so kind. The windows had been egged a few times, people screamed that he had been an abomination, and that he got what was coming to him. Many people jeered or said that they were praying for his blackened soul, where it was surely burning in hell. Someone said that he was a freak of nature, a disgusting louse that should have been exterminated and kept away from human society, as they debated him on an evening chat show, as if he had been nothing more than a hypothetical ethics question about men—such as Victor—playing the role of God, and they talked about how science needed boundaries. They didn't care that Sherlock had been a man, a man who had suffered and loved and who deserved human decency, he was just an interesting question to them.

A few people had the nerve to say that if he were still alive then they would find him and put him down humanely, as it was clear that his suicide was the best way to end his suffering. It sickened me. That they pretended to know him and pretended to understand what he'd been through and then acted like he was an animal to be euthanized. He was a man! He was my good, kind man, a decent one beneath his pain and cold, guarded logic.

What sickened me even more however was the members of Scotland Yard showing up to the funeral and crying hysterically – saying that he was misunderstood and that they always knew he was a good person inside - and apologising, begging for forgiveness. I didn't want their apologies, they should have been for Sherlock. The acceptance had come too late, it couldn't do any good now and if they really had thought that then why hadn't they said it at the time? Anderson had apologised to me but whilst it was annoying... it wasn't as bad as Sally not even showing up. Because I knew exactly why she didn't show up.

There was an anonymous inside source at Scotland Yard saying in the papers that Sherlock had always been a bit weird, an outsider, that this information wasn't a surprise. She'd even said that she'd arrest him on the spot for the crimes he had committed two centuries ago if she had the chance, saying that his past didn't change her opinion of him. When I did see her, whilst going to get Lestrade from work to go for a pint, I could see that she still thought of him as the freak – perhaps thought it even more than before - and not even saying it to my face just made my blood boil, she was a coward.

It took me a long time to forgive Lestrade for giving in to the suspicions of his team. Sitting under the bridge that rainy night, we had both said we'd look after Sherlock and protect him. I'd kept my side of the bargain and I felt betrayed. I felt like Lestrade had jumped ship, assumed that Sherlock was back to his criminal ways, when he wasn't. I knew Sherlock would never have gone back to the darkness. In a time when he should have been happy, Sherlock had jumped off a roof because he'd been pushed by people having so little faith in him when he was a better person – a stronger person – than all of them combined. They knew the truth now and whilst some brayed for blood which had already been spilt, and, whilst they winced slightly at his crimes long ago they understood, many of them had accepted him. I wish he could see at least that side. Perhaps Sherlock had felt he didn't have enough support to deal with it, as if he only had me left because Lestrade had abandoned him.

But whilst Lestrade's betrayal had hurt... nothing hurt so much as losing Sherlock. As much as putting on the woollen jumper he'd given me and not being able to thank him every morning with a kiss, not hearing him playing the music he wrote for me on the violin in the early hours, and not waking up with him wrapped in my arms. It hurt me to know that I was alone in the world, that I would never see him again, and to know that we should have had more time. We'd been together for two months, only two months and that was it, and they'd been the best of my life but perhaps if I'd told him my feelings sooner and we'd been together longer, he would have believed that he was loved and he wouldn't have jumped. It hurt that he had suffered two hundred years of Hell and then just two months into finding happiness he'd lost it. He'd been publicly humiliated again, it seemed like a vicious cycle for him – of him receiving abuse from those around him - and he'd felt the need to jump off a building to escape it, to end the cycle at last.

Everything seemed dark, dull, lifeless and boring without Sherlock. I felt like my life would never be exciting or happy again and I didn't want it to be, I only wanted happiness if Sherlock could share in it. I wanted to hold him and tell him he'd been stupid for jumping because he was loved, adored even, and his past and his scars only made him more beautiful in my eyes because they were what made him Sherlock, and they were what had made him so strong. And I loved him for everything that he was.

But then if I thought about it, and God knows I could nothing but think nowadays as I was lying alone in my cold empty bed at night, never able to sleep, he'd only died because I loved him. That hurt, a lot. If he'd fallen of that building a couple of months previously, he could have gotten up again. He would have been battered and bruised and would have had more broken bones and blood loss than should have been possible, but he would have been alive none the less. Until then, he was breakable but he was unstoppable. I don't know what state he would have been in but he would have carried on, he would have healed eventually and he would still be here. I gave him a soul and with it mortality.

I gave him death.

I shoved the cup of tea away, it was cold now. I didn't realise that the light had been disappearing as I was sat thinking and staring at the pictures of Sherlock, trying to read his tiny scribbled handwriting, with his single blood-stained blue scarf clutched in my hands, for most of the evening. Night fell too fast now, darkness was always seeping into the edges of my life but when night came it was even darker. I went to an empty bed, to sleep on a mattress that didn't slightly sag under another body and cause us to roll together into the dip. It was a bed without a face pressed into my chest and without a body wrapped so tightly around mine that I sometimes wondered if our limbs must have turned into Velcro overnight. Sherlock had been like a radiator, he was always hot and now, even with three blankets, the bed was too cold and too quiet without the steady rhythm of deep breaths. I hardly slept; Mrs Hudson noticed and nagged me about, Lestrade worried about it, even bloody Mycroft told me I needed to rest. He even said that he could acquire me a prescription for pills if the problem persisted. I didn't want his bloody help. All those years he spent with Sherlock, Sherlock had done everything for him, raised him and gotten him that position in the government, and he had betrayed him twice. But this time there would be no reunion in twenty years' time; we could search for ever but Sherlock wasn't hiding somewhere out there in the dark, not this time.

I was just shuffling towards Sherlock's bedroom – I had started sleeping in there months ago, when his smell had still lingered, and never broken the habit after it faded – when the doorbell rang. I sighed, it was probably another god-botherer telling him that they were either praying for Sherlock in Heaven or praying for his damned soul where it was confined to the fiery depths of Hell. Those events had gotten slightly rarer now, the hype had died down now that it had been over half a year since his death and whilst occasionally a new person would come forward with news of their past with Sherlock, selling their brief interaction for a large sum, ultimately the world had quietened.

A lot of the excitement had been because Sherlock was living, breathing proof – or had been living, breathing proof I bitterly reminded myself – that immortality was attainable. That dead people could be brought back to life. And the world went insane over that knowledge, in their desire to resurrect loved ones or keep themselves alive forever. Scientists were investigating how Sherlock had been created and brought to life but I got the feeling that their progress was slow and poor, interrupted by politics and regulation, and even without those interruptions no-one understood that spark of life. Sherlock had died with the only glimpse of that information. They seemed to have realised that quickly; there were petitions to donate his body to science, to study him and find out what made him tick. Thankfully Mycroft – who was still sneaking around with his tail between his legs trying to make it up to me and Sherlock's memory, although he'd never admit it – had swiftly dealt with that and the body had briefly disappeared until the funeral. It was kept locked away in a secret place until it was moved, with only a few select agents knowing, to the funeral. After that they made sure the body was cremated, although his ashes were laid to rest in a coffin filled with a few possessions, so he could be buried and have a gravestone to mark his life. It had been kept a private and secret affair so that only those who I wanted there could attend. I didn't need to mourn with a thousand others in attendance, all crying for a man they'd never met or causing a riot over the "freak's" body.

The doorbell rang again and someone began knocking insistently, making me frown. If it had been a few months ago I would have said it was a client but Sherlock was gone and I doubt that there was a person in Britain who didn't know it. I didn't want to have another difficult conversation with a prospective client in distress and have to explain that, "no sorry, he won't be back any time soon. Why? Because he's dead. Who am I? I was his bloody partner so piss off; I know what I'm talking about. So yeah, he's not coming back and I'm sorry to inconvenience you. Can I take a message? I can get the Ouija Board out and tell him to get back to you."

Walking a little bit faster, I shouted,

"Alright, I'm coming! Calm down, I'll be there in a second." The knocking continued and finally I reached the door. I sighed as I said; "I'm sorry, if you're looking for Sherlock-" It was a woman stood on the doorstep. The thick jacket and the blanket slung round her shoulder, as well as the generally poor condition of her clothes, suggested that she was homeless,

"No, I'm not looking for him; I know what happened. Here." She held out an envelope, making me frown and stare at her, "it's not going to bite you know," she snapped, looking annoyed by my gormless expression.

I didn't say anything as I took the envelope; she nodded at it, "read it." And then she turned on her heel and left, leaving me in a state of shock. I ripped into the brown paper and pulled out the card inside, barely listening as she said, "there'll be more to come, the rest of the homeless network are getting involved. We can't have the same messenger, or they'll be able to track the notes or we'll be brought in for questioning." I frowned, before unfolding the paper,

_I love you, SH_

Holy mother of- it was_ his_ handwriting. That's all it said, I love you. A message from beyond the grave, the one thing I had been desperate to hear for so long, but I wanted to hear from the man himself and not from a piece of paper. Questions began to race in my mind and looked up to find her gone, the questions doomed to go unanswered. When did he write this? Had he done it in the time when we were happy and carefree, believing that it would be a romantic gesture to have these notes delivered to me? Or did he do as it began to realise the happiness was coming to an end, as an insurance that I would know I was love when he was gone?

So many questions, all doomed to go unanswered - at least for now.

For the next two months, every time I walked past a homeless person in the street I looked at them expectantly. Most of them had no idea why I peered at them so intensely, so I would give them a few quid and keep walking. Some would look at me pityingly, recognising me from where I had once fallen into step at a now non-existent side and knowing what I was feeling. Then there was those few who got to their feet and produced an envelope in my hands, apologising for not being able to tell me where they came from but hoping that it would be what I needed to hear.

_I have always appreciated your smile, it is very charming. SH_

_If I were ever to retire, it would be to live in the countryside with my doctor and a bulldog called Gladstone, like you told me you wanted to get for 221B. If I can grow old, I only want to do so at your side. SH_

_I have loved you since the second I first saw you. SH_

_I have been waiting for you since my heart first began to beat, now it beats for you. SH_

_You're everything I ever wanted in life. SH_

_I wish you were here with me, this second. SH_

_You make me want to be a better person. SH_

_You are my soul. SH_

_I want to be near to you. SH_

_You are special; you might think that I am too good for you because I am a genius but it is very much the other way round John. SH_

_I would give up my intellect, my cases, my experiments and everything that you have ever disliked me doing, if it would earn me just one kiss. SH_

_You make me better. SH_

I still didn't know how the homeless network came to be in possession of the letters, all I could feel was the heartache that I couldn't write back and respond. It hurt every time I received one but still it made life almost bearable.

And then one not very special day, almost nine months after Sherlock's death, a new envelope dropped through the door. I had been going downstairs, on my way out of the door and off to Tesco, when I saw the envelope coming through the letter box. I ran and caught it before it could touch the ground. Not pausing to look at its contents, I pulled open the door and sprinted out into the street. If this letter was being put through the door, rather than being given to me in person, there was something different about it. But the deliverer was gone, the single figure on Baker Street disappearing round the corner – a tallish person in a duffle coat with shortly cropped reddish curls – and though I ran after them, screaming for them to stop, by the time I reached the corner they were gone.

I stood, trying to catch my breath for a minute, and then I ripped open the envelope to read the message. I almost fainted when I saw it,

_I'm not dead, let's have dinner. SH_

* * *

**AN. We'll be going back to Sherlock next, don't worry we'll see what happened in the meantime. And we'll be finding out if the n****otes are real, because who knows... it could be Moriarty, luring John into a trap. After all, he's probably not happy with Sherlock running off, maybe he wants to lure John in as bait! All shall be revealed.**


	53. 2011 - Christmas

**2011 - Christmas**

**Sherlock POV**

Christmas Day had come round again and, whilst it reminded me of Mycroft's second Christmas when I spent the whole day alone with no-one for company except a baby incapable of conversational, my thoughts went to home. My real home; 221 Baker Street. I dreamt about the Christmas Eve the year before, when I played the violin and John had brought that _woman—_before we embarked upon our relationship—and I had been surrounded by a small group of loved ones. I wished I could go back, to see them and all and let me know that I was alive. Not for the first time, I found myself hoping that John wasn't alone, that Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were keeping him company… and then my thoughts turned to the possibility that maybe there was someone else, a woman even, helping him through his grief. I knew that, if that were the case, my heart would break.

Victor woke me by calling my name at the end of the bed, and I instantly went to let him out and go find breakfast. My first trip out of the house had been to get food a few days ago, which had been chaos due to the last minute panic shopping for Christmas lunch. I had planned to have a quiet day in the house, maybe watch some of the appalling TV shows that I occasionally watch to John's surprise. But the house was too quiet, I found it quite intolerable, I need noise and excitement… I needed London, and I needed John. So I bundled Victor up in as many layers as I could, watching the beginnings of a snowy day building up outside the window, and ten minutes later we were in the car and driving towards London. I needed to return the getaway vehicle I had stolen anyway.

The traffic was, as you would expect in London, awful and it took us an hour to get anywhere near to Baker Street but it didn't matter, Victor seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself in the passenger seat. For the first time he was seeing more than the inside of our house, he was seeing the world and he seemed to be determined to drink it all in, having pushed himself up onto his unsteady legs. He wobbled a few times, having only just grasped the concept of walking a few days ago, but managed to stay upright due to the seatbelt holding him back, and was peering wide eyed out at the world,

"Look!" He stabbed the glass excitedly, "there, look!" I grinned at him, and nodded,

"Welcome to London, Victor." He seemed to be testing the sentence on his tongue, rolling the words around his mouth as if he was tasting them from all directions, before saying thoughtfully,

"Lonen?" I nodded again, watching his head whip round to stare open mouthed at the London Eye, "! Look, Sherlo! Big and shiny!"

"I'll take you on it one day; I'll take you to see everything. Anywhere you want to go, we'll go in a heartbeat, anywhere you choose and more. If you want, I'll show you the whole world. I will do anything for you. But for now, we're going to see London."

I returned the car with very little difficulty, by which I mean that I parked the car about two miles away from where I had found it and ran. The walk to Baker Street was extremely long and cold but I didn't have any money for us to go by public transport or cab, and I was enjoying the fact that Victor loved the snow. He was bounding around and close to rolling around in it, and was pointing at anything and everything that caught his attention, as he trilled happily and delighted in the smells and sounds of London. Every so often, when the wind blew and snow drifted down from the sky, he would stop to enjoy the feel of the cool London air on his cheek, before running back and into my arms, revelling in the closeness. Like any child, he whimpered and shrank away slightly from loud noises such as blaring horns or the slurred shouting of the people who had drunk too much sherry to celebrate Christmas but mostly he just wanted to see more, to touch and to smell everything. Every so often he even imitated the sounds he heard, from the drunken slurring to car alarms, before finally turning and asking,

"Where we go, daddy?" I smiled slightly at the use of the word,

"Baker Street."

"Bake stwee?" I nodded, picking him up so he couldn't slip on a patch of ice,

"It's where I used to live… and where John lives?"

"John? Who John?"

"The most amazing, wonderful, kind and interesting man that I have ever known. He's going to be your other father, if he wants to be."

"Why he not want to be?" I sighed, reaching out to wrap his scarf around him more tightly,

"He doesn't know about you, or about me at the moment, and I don't know when he will… and if he'll still love me, or if he'll be angry at me." I ran a hand through my hair, readjusting it automatically when the wind blew to cover as much of my scars as possible. It was uneven in length, some parts completely bare because the hair wouldn't grow through the scars and other sections having almost caught up to the bits that Moriarty's goon didn't shave. I had died it a few days ago, causing Victor a small amount of alarm and confusion, so that I could pass unknown through the crowds who had seen my face plastered across the papers seven months ago when I committed 'suicide'.

Baker Street filled me with the same bittersweet feeling as it had when I first returned there, although this time I didn't walk down the road. I could see Lestrade's car parked outside so at least I knew he was in there to keep John company. I sighed wistfully, wishing I could go in and see John for myself, to tell him that I was sorry and that I loved him and to get rid of any attempts for him to move on with someone else. Victor was squirming in my arms, trying to go and run into the house I was staring at but I turned and went to leave, until I heard a voice,

"Alright Greg; tell Mycroft that I said Merry Christmas, even if I'm still bloody pissed." I didn't dare turn, I just stayed still and ached to move closer to the voice, to _John's_ voice, as Lestrade laughed,

"You're not the only one, John; don't worry, he'll be in the doghouse for the rest of his life at this rate, especially since he's off at work today. I mean, you would think that he would take Christmas day off but no!" I turned my head slightly, just enough that I could see them out of the corner of my eye. It felt like a firework had gone off in my chest, because there was John; he was a lot skinnier, had more grey hairs and looked like he hadn't slept in days but he was _there_. Victor must have felt my arms squeeze slightly around him because he yelped,

"Sherlock! Baker Street!" I hushed him, turning fully away from them both as John hissed,

"God, it never bloody stops." His voice raised to shout across to where I should, "show some respect, mate." I didn't respond, I just began walking away, "it's always happening. Tourist's keep coming to gawp at my home, to talk and whisper on the corner about Sherlock Holmes, it just-"

"I know, John. Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

"Yeah, Molly and Mrs Hudson can keep me company. I considered inviting Mary," I felt every jealous fibre in my body bristle and then relax when he continued, "but she's just… not Sherlock. I just couldn't." I breathed a sigh of relief and kept walking, thinking of my next destination.

Half an hour later, I was letting myself into Mycroft's office, placing Victor on the desk and waiting for my brother to return from his lunch break. I didn't have to wait long before the door opened to reveal my brother, who appeared to have been comfort eating, looking very worn and tired as he talked to his assistant,

"Can you tell the Prime Minister that-" He froze, eyes widening and his entire body rigid as he stared at me, "never mind, cancel all of my appointments for the rest of the day."

"But sir!"

"And make sure that I am not disturbed." He shut the door behind him with a soft click, never taking his eyes of me, "isn't this a familiar situation?"

"There are some differences to last time I appeared in your life, unexpectedly."

"You're dead, Sherlock; I would say that you must be a hallucination but I cannot imagine why I would imagine you as being ginger." I smiled slightly, and Mycroft looked to the figure on the desk, "nor would I imagine you suddenly having a baby. What is going on Sherlock? How are you alive? And why-" His face crumpled slightly, as he looked at my carefully and sympathy filled him, "why are you scarred again?"

"Moriarty wanted me to go with him, so he had me fake my own death with threats against the other inhabitants of 221 Baker Street and against your husband. He wanted me to create more of our kind." He swallowed, looking more anxious than I had ever seen my stoic brother,

"And did you?"

"I had no choice. He threatened John; there was no way out for me."

"So you didn't jump because you were worried about your reputation." I narrowed my eyes, knowing exactly what he was getting at,

"No, but don't imagine that I am not angry about you revealing my entire past to Moriarty and the press, I am certainly not tickled pink by that." He nodded, looking slightly abashed at least, before pointing at Victor,

"I suppose this is your creation, then?"

"One of them."

"One of them," he asked, faintly. I nodded,

"There are six adult versions; as I said, I was left with no choice. They are the reason why I am here." He crossed to pour himself a tumbler of whisky, drinking it quickly to calm his nerves,

"Okay, what do you need?"

"Moriarty's going to train them to be murderers. I want you to make sure that, if they are caught by the police, they will be brought to me and I want you to have people out there looking. I will be doing the best that I can but I cannot return to London for a while, I have to wait until Moriarty tires of chasing me and turns his attention to other things. I also need you to keep myself, and Victor," his eyes widened slightly at the name, "and John safe. Can you do all that?"

"Of course. Can I tell anyone that you came here?"

"No, nobody can know yet. If news gets out about me being here then Moriarty might be able to track me down. You know where I'll be hiding, that's all I can say on the matter."

"So you won't even tell John?"

"No, I shall have to allow him to believe the lie for a little while longer." Mycroft nodded, as Victor smiled at him and then turned to hold out his arms to me,

"Daddy, up!" I crossed, picking him up and settling him in my arms,

"Well, I must say, he is a credit to you. Excellent work, and a very sweet child. What are you going to do with him?" I frowned, looking at him,

"I'm going to keep him of course, and raise him as my son – and John's, if that's what he wants." Mycroft's face flitted over with an odd expression for a second and, when he spoke again, I realised that it was jealousy. Mycroft was jealous of Victor,

"What's wrong?"

"When I was growing up, you always told me to call you Sherlock. You never tried to be my father, why are you trying to be his?"

"I never wanted to be your father because it would have been wrong. You had a father somewhere out there, you weren't mine and you wouldn't have benefited from me trying to be your parent, I wasn't ready back then. Now… now I have changed and I have John, I don't want to repeat my mistakes." He nodded, still looking slightly angry beneath it, "Mycroft, you know that I was always proud of you, don't you? Even though we were just brothers, who always made me proud, even when we fell out. I'm sorry if you ever felt cheated by having me, and not your father." He sighed, finishing off the whisky,

"I wouldn't be here today, if I had had my father and you were the right person to raise me, I know that now. I'm grateful to you, Sherlock, and you did a good job most of the time. I am very sorry for all of the things that I have done to you, especially of late. Can you forgive me?" I nodded,

"I can, although I imagine you will have a very difficult time to convince, John."

"Yes, and Greg's not overly happy with me either."

"I do not envy you for that… although I imagine that I will be in trouble when I do return. Speaking of John, do you have an envelope?" He reached under his desk, pulling out a brown envelope and pushing it towards me. Placing Victor on the desk, I picked up a piece of paper from his tray and wrote my message, hoping that maybe it would help him, even if I couldn't tell him that I was alive or where I was,

"What are you doing?"

"I'm posthumously telling John that I love him. Please deliver this to one of the homeless network and get them to deliver it to him post-haste, I will send other messages when I can. Oh and Mycroft?" He looked up from my message,

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"If you don't keep John safe while I'm gone, I will systematically destroy your relationship with the detective inspector—which I so carefully set up—and then see to it that your position in the government becomes considerably more shaky. Understood?" He nodded, and after picking up Victor and placing him on my hip, I turned and left my brother sat at his desk, pocketing the wallet I had taken off of him for my train fare home.

**AN. I have such conflicting feelings; on the one hand, I really want to go down to the Sherlock filming and see Benedict, since I didn't get to meet him in January (although I stood pretty near by) and on the other hand, I don't want to bother them, as it must get annoying for them having all of those fans getting in the way and screaming. Sigh. I won't go but I'll send thought waves of love and support.**


	54. 2012 - The Empty House

**2012 - The Empty House**

**John POV**

It had to be a joke, it had to be. A sick prank by someone who had a sample of his handwriting. It couldn't be real because Sherlock was dead; I had spent nine fucking months failing to get over him and here was a message that both ignited my long dead heart and filled me with more pain and fear than ever before.

Not dead.

Not.

Dead.

No.

I flipped over the paper and realised that this message was written on the back of a photograph. It was a little old fashioned image – appearing to be from the late 1960s – containing f a pretty white house with roses growing on the front and someone sat on the front doorstep. A familiar someone with a baby in his arms, was that Sherlock and baby Mycroft? God I hoped so, the shadow fell over his face in just a way that it disguised him but the more I look at it, the more certain I was that it was him.

Was he there? At the cottage? How was I supposed to find him? He had never told me where the cottage was, in fact from conversations with Mycroft in the Diogenes club I was fairly certain the cottage was off the grid now. Mycroft had removed its very existence from the books, should Sherlock ever need somewhere to hide… oh. Oh of course! If Sherlock had faked his suicide, he would need an untraceable location to hide in and only Mycroft could provide the address, and he would never do that. So Mycroft could tell me…

I scrambled for my mobile, all thoughts of a trip to Tesco instantly forgotten as I was punching in the number with shaking hands. The voice down the other end of the phone was sadder than I remembered, soft and quiet and no longer intimidating,

"Hello, John."

"Where did you and Sherlock live when you were younger?" There was a long pause, as he tried to figure out what I was asking that for,

"Pardon?"

"Where did you live? It's a simple enough question-"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just bloody tell me! Where was it?!"

"We lived in Victor's cottage, where he lived for a few years whilst studying. Well, I say cottage it was actually a grander state of affairs, quit-"

"Just shut up and tell me where it was." A few months ago and Mycroft probably would have had me shot for talking to him like that but after everything I had been through because of that man, who had betrayed his brother and his guardian, he was inclined to be lenient to me. He sighed heavily,

"Chalkdell Wood, in St Albans. It was a little house at the top of the hill, which was unattached to any roads and perfectly secluded, an excellent place for Sherlock to hide as you can imagine-" I didn't listen to the rest of his explanation, I had slammed down the phone and run for the door, racing down the street and straight for the underground as I thought of train routes. Luckily, I had grown up in an area not far from there so it wouldn't be difficult to remember how to get back there.

I drew many looks as I sat there, a wild look in my eye and my fingers drumming against my bouncing knee as I waited for the underground to pull into St Pancras International. Even though people were used to seeing other commuters running for the train; I drew even more looks as I raced full speed through the station, not caring if I knocked people down, and towards the over ground train I needed. Forty minutes had never been so impossibly slow, as I watched the world crawling past outside and clutching the piece of paper in my hand. At one point I punched in the address into my phone, getting up maps and figuring out a route, it really was in the middle of nowhere and there didn't seem to be a house anywhere in the area, although some houses seemed to have built up around the woods in more recent years.

I didn't even stop to try and get a cab; I'd used up all of my money on my train ticket anyway. I just ran. My heart was racing for more reasons than just the sprinting. The house that finally came into my vision was like an answer to my prayers, with the potential to answer all of my questions and to take away the crippling pain of my current life. Except, as I got closer to the house, I realised that it was in disrepair, the gardens surrounding it were overgrown and wild, most of the windows covered by boards and everything was grimy and old, as if no-one had lived there for a long time. And most importantly, even though it was quickly darkening, there were no lights on. I stood knocking, desperately banging on the door and calling out his name, but there was no response.

There was no one there.

That is when I broke down, the hope was suddenly torn out from under me and I was collapsing onto the steps by the front door, sobbing in earnest in front of the empty house, as I realised that he was gone. I hadn't cried since he died, not really. It never really felt real, so I'd never managed to just unleash the feelings, now it felt real. All of my hope had died, and I was sure that I was dying with it – I mean, how can anyone survive pain like that? He was definitely gone. Had any of those notes been real or were they all just a trick? Was it all just to get up my hope and to make me feel like I was still connected to Sherlock, only for it to be cruelly snatched away? I would find whoever had torn my heart out like this, with this sick joke, and I would punch the living day lights out of them until they felt just a fraction of the pain I was suffering, as I cried on the doorstep.

I didn't hear the footsteps coming up the driveway, I didn't feel the hand on my shoulder… but I did hear the voice that followed, as a kiss ghosted across my forehead and whispered into the skin,

"Hello, John." My head whipped up to look at him, thinking that I was hallucinating, and I realised that I was looking at the man who had posted the letter through the door, complete with the same parker and the same cropped red curls. I was looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock was right there, grinning at me with a more greys than I had ever seen him have streaking through the auburn curls. He had a smattering of healing burns striping his face and disappearing into the short curls, which seemed to be cut short so as to hide the fact that some were much shorter – as if patches had been cut out and the rest left long. Oh God, he was there… he was alive… and with that I burst out laughing, giggling in shock as I stared at my dead love,

"You're- you're ginger."

And then I promptly collapsed.

**AN. Woooooooooooo, party time! Does this make you all forgive me for being a horrible, cruel human being? I hope it does! Also, who caught my reference to canon?**


	55. 2012 - There's no place like home

**2012 - There's no place like home**

**Sherlock POV**

The next day began with John helping me to pack, all of mine and Victor's clothes and a few of the smaller items and things that I had left behind a long time ago, when I last left the house and didn't intend to return. I took the tea-set that my father had owned, a few more of the books I had initially abandoned, and a the toys and clothes that I had bought years ago for Mycroft. John wasn't actually much help, he seemed content to just sit and watch me, occasionally reaching out to touch me and confirm that I was actually there. The fifth time his hand rested on my arm, I covered it with my own and squeezed, reassuring him silently as he lent in to kiss the top of my head and mutter,

"I'm going to go get a taxi."

"No need, Mycroft will have realised that—since you came here—you know I'm alive and will assume that I plan to return home, and such he will have sent a car. Am I correct?" He stood and looked out the window, nodding in confirmation,

"In that case, I'm going to start packing up and I'm going to ring Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, to let them know they're in for a big surprise, although I won't tell them you're alive. They won't believe me and I'd rather leave you to do that anyway."

"I'll wake Victor, then." He reached out, to take my hand and say quietly,

"I'm really glad you're including me in this Sherlock, that we're going to look after him together…"

"I knew you always wanted kids, even if you decided to give up on the thought when you fell in love with me." He smiled,

"I wouldn't have wanted a family with anyone else, and somehow I get both; now all that's left is to go home."

We returned to London about an hour later, pulling up just as Mrs Hudson was rushing out to meet John, looking flustered by his sudden disappearance the day before apparently,

"Oh thank goodness, where have you been John? I was worried sick, I thought that you had done something sill- oh!" She froze, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights as she saw me getting out of the car behind him,

"Hello, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh my- thank the Heavens, you're back!" Her voice suddenly sounded angry and John had to put an arm around her, to hold her back and soothe her, "you stupid boy, what on Earth did you do that to us for? Where have you been?" She looked more closely at the blanket in my arms, realising that there was a small boy peering out through it, "you have a lot of explaining to do young man."

"Yes, I realise that, could you take Victor for me? John and I need to bring in the boxes. Unless you want to carry them all up a flight of stairs-"

"Don't get snippy with me young man," she stepped forward, reaching out her hands and taking hold of Victor, "come here sweetheart." She pushed the blankets out of his face and blinked in surprise, "poor dear looks like he's been in the wars, and so do you for that matter Sherlock."

If she noticed my tension, or John's for that matter, she didn't mention it, "he's handsome little boy, though. Aren't you baby?"

"Han'som?" She smiled, tittering slightly as he reached out inquisitively to play with her necklace,

"Yes, my handsome boy; you're going to look like your daddy when you're older." He just grinned up at her, not quite getting her meaning before turning and pointing at me,

"Daddy!"

"Yes, that's your daddy!" John appeared at my side, with one of the larger boxes in hand and I followed with the rest,

"Shall we go inside, before people realise there's a supposedly dead man stood right in front of his home?" John asked. I nodded, Mrs Hudson leading the way up to our flat; it smelt stale and dusty, but was exactly the same as I remembered it, not a thing had been moved. Our boxes were quickly abandoned in the corner and John took Victor from Mrs Hudson, who disappeared into the kitchen,

"I'll just put the kettle on, whilst we wait for Gregory, shall I?" We both made a noise of agreement and I asked John, who was fussing over Victor,

"When did he become Gregory?"

"Since Christmas, he came round to keep me company-"

"Yes, I saw," I remarked, without really thinking about it. His eyes narrowed slightly,

"Oh? How did you see that?" I paused, thinking about my next words very carefully. In the end, he didn't wait for my answer because he already knew, "I thought there was something familiar about Victor; he's the little boy I saw on the corner! I shouted at the two of you, you were right there and you just- I don't believe you Sherlock."

"I'm sorry, John; it wasn't safe for you to know at the time."

"It's fine," he said through gritted teeth, suggesting that it _really _wasn't, and if I didn't fix it then the events of last night wouldn't be happening again for a _very _long time. I picked up the violin, enjoying the feel of the smooth wood against my fingertips, and gently used the bow to push John down into his armchair, before I promptly began his composition. The one I had finished writing for him the night before we finally confessed our feelings. Before long the anger seemed to melt from his expression, Victor looking enraptured, as I said gently over the slow music,

"I really am sorry, John; I'm sorry that I was there, and couldn't tell you-" He sighed, relaxing and closing his eyes to listen to the music,

"It's fine, Sherlock; I've forgiven you."

We didn't have to wait much longer for Lestrade to arrive, letting himself in and asking,

"Is everything alright, Jo-?" He looked at me in pure shock,

"It's good to see you Greg-" His nostrils flared and ten seconds later I was flat on my back, with John and Mrs Hudson shouting in the background,

"Now you remember my bloody first name? Huh? Now?!" He was shaking me, knuckles white around my collar, and then he stopped as he heard Victor's frightened crying, "John, why the Hell are you holding a baby?"

"He's our son. Sherlock came back with him." Lestrade staggered to his feet, as Mrs Hudson reached out to help me up,

"How- how did he? I just… I can't-" He stumbled across to the sofa, falling into the seat, "I don't know what's going on but I want an explanation."

"I would appreciate one, as well boys," Mrs Hudson said, handing Lestrade a cup of tea. So I told them, everything. And when at last I was finished, Lestrade put his head in his hands and muttered,

"I know I should have believed you, Sherlock, and I'm not off the hook but you have no idea how glad I am to hear that I wasn't the reason you killed yourself."

"Nor was Mycroft," I said, "as much it pains me to admit it. I think the two of you should," I tried to ignore the small amount of bile at having to say this, "kiss and make up."

"I'll think about it." He put the tea down on the coffee table, "as much as this was very lovely tea, Mrs Hudson, I think I'm going to need something stronger. Is there any scotch around here?" John pointed to the kitchen

"In the top cupboard, I put it in the top shelf so Sherlock wouldn't think to get at it, after his binge under London Bridge." Mrs Hudson looked bewildered,

"Binge? Sherlock, what did you do?"

"It was nothing," John pacified her, "he just had a bit too much to drink, and I didn't want a repeat." Lestrade reappeared with a glass in hand, leaning against the wall,

"I suppose I'll be going in on my day off tomorrow, then."

"Why?" John asked, as he adjusted Victor's sleeping form in his arms,

"There are six, potentially murderous, creatures out there; I need to start looking-"

"There's not need, Lestrade," I said, "Mycroft is already making progress."

"What is Moriarty going to do with them?"

"Oh, the usual; wreak havoc, cause destruction and suffering, and possibly world domination. I find the process used to bring him to life left damage, made him slightly one-tracked in the mind, although it makes him a very good old-fashioned villain. My father's artwork might have left something to be desired but his process in bringing me to life was infallible in that respect. I can only hope that Moriarty doesn't use his creators inept techniques to ruin my creatures."

"I just can't believe you created them-"

"I had to, Lestrade. If I didn't fake my suicide and then go with him and create them, he would have killed you, John and Mrs Hudson -" Our landlady was suddenly jumping across the room, with a surprising amount of speed for a woman her age, to wrap her arms around me,

"Oh Sherlock, you silly boy. You didn't have to do that; you're worth a thousand little old landladies-" Lestrade grinned at me over the scotch,

"I will admit I'm a little touched, I didn't realise I would be included in the group of people used to blackmail you." I cleared my throat, slightly uncomfortable as I admitted,

"Well, we've known each other for a long time and you helped me a long time ago, I would never have forgiven myself if I didn't save any one of you."

Mrs Hudson pulled back from where she still had a stranglehold and looked at me sadly, eyes drinking in every little bit of the scars,

"What are you going to do about your scars? And Victor's?"

"It will be some time before they heal again properly, it has been nine months since he… tortured me," they all winced at the word, "and there's been some healing and luckily they were more superficial then my original scars, the burns didn't run all the way to the bone and I stitched them together so they can heal again over the next few years. With the help of modern medicine and skin grafts, and my own treatments which I developed the first time I was scarred, I have hope for them."

"Good, I'm glad," she patted my arm and nodded,

"I suppose there's only one thing left to ask," I said. Looking at them both, "now that I'm back, can you both forgive me?"

They were silent for a minute and then Lestrade pushed off from leaning against the wall, an exasperate look on his face as he chuckled,

"Of course we bloody can, you daft old idiot. For someone whose been around two hundred years, you really can be surprisingly dense; how could we turn you away after all you did for us, and when you have a little boy to protect from a world which would instantly turn on the both of you?"

"Yes," Mrs Hudson agreed, "I'm with Gregory. You're sillier than I thought, if you really believed we wouldn't forgive you. So long as you pay rent again, since John's had quite enough of Mycroft subsidising your half, I'll gladly have you home. Now, I think it's time we left you two alone. Shall I see you out, Gregory?" He nodded, finishing the last bit of scotch off in a gulp, and crossing to clap me on the back,

"It's good to have you back, Sherlock; I'll be round when you want me, to go through the process for you being alive again. There's a lot of paperwork involved, trust me; I'll see you soon, John." He smiled at Mrs Hudson, who kissed Victor on the forehead and then lead the way out, shutting the door behind them.

I turned to John,

"I think Mycroft's men put a crib in your room upstairs, if you want to put him to sleep up there."

"Oh really?" He grinned, "and why not in your bedroom?"

"Well, I was rather hoping we could use mine for another purpose." He chuckled, climbing to her feet and whispering,

"I'll be back in two minutes."

"I'll be waiting."


	56. 2013 - One year

**AN. I spoil you guys, I really do; here is a second chapter in one day, when I wasn't planning to post even one today!**

* * *

**2013 - One year**

**John POV**

Whilst Sherlock was gone, and believed dead, I'd started doing night shifts in St Barts' A&E. It had been the only way I could get close to that rush of adrenaline that I'd experienced on cases with Sherlock. Occasionally, in the most chaotic hours—such as when there a patient dying or hundreds of emergencies coming in at once—I would turn to look for Sherlock. The thrum of my speeding heart had always been the direct cause of his presence, whether it was for the case or just for him, but instead I would find a nurse or another doctor and the adrenaline levels would fall. It hadn't felt right to feel such excitement when Sherlock wasn't the cause of it.

After his return, I still enjoyed the work but it meant I spent long hours out of the flat when I could have been home with Sherlock and Victor. Most days, I'd wake to find the two of them already up - Victor drinking his milk sleepily as Sherlock dressed him or read to him quietly in the living room - and when I got back they'd still be there. Once or twice I found Victor sitting on Sherlock's lap and watching him experiment, helping where possible and playing with the glass beakers. Quite a number of glass test tubes had been broken by his still poor motor skills.

At first, I simply thought that Sherlock believed it was best not to leave the flat - so that he wouldn't blow his cover and expose the fact he was alive - or that he was keeping Victor hidden from Moriarty. But slowly, I began to realise that it was something else entirely, the most blaring reason which was at the forefront of Sherlock's mind and which I had somehow missed. I know Sherlock better than anyone in the world - which I suppose isn't saying much since nobody really knows him, he keeps his secrets pressed to his chest and covered by a suspicious hand - and I could see what it really was.

Sherlock Holmes was ashamed and he was afraid.

And not just in the, "ooh-there's-a-spider-in-the-bath" sort of way... he was scared to his very core, terrified to take even a step out of the door.

A couple of months ago, before the truth of his past came out and the return of his scars, he would have come back from the dead without a care in the world. He wouldn't care, he would wander along the street as bold as brass, whilst he carefully analysed people's reactions to finding out that he was alive, or thinking he was a ghost. But suddenly he was timid and meek in that respect, he still walked around the flat as arrogant and large as life as I remembered but he visibly paled if I asked him to go to the shop for me. He wouldn't admit it but now he was frightened. Scared of the prejudice, of the judgement and the sidelong glances he'd suffered through for years, terrified that now people knew the worst of the truth about him they would turn. But he wasn't just afraid of that for himself, he was terrified that he wouldn't come back from just a trip down the road, that something would happen to him, and Victor - as much as I loved the little boy and treated him as my own - would be alone without guidance from someone in the same boat.

Victor would need that as he grew up, he would need someone who understood and told him that he wasn't a monster, that he wasn't hideous or something to be hated, and he needed to hear it from someone like him. Sherlock knew just how different things would have been if he had had someone like that as well, if he hadn't thought himself alone in the world. So he knew that he had to be there for Victor because they were of the same kind, the same hated breed. Sherlock was particularly terrified that if he let Victor out, the world would turn on the boy. Just as it had turned on him when it found out the truth.

So he stayed inside, over the next year and slowly Victor grew older and understood me, he taught Victor about a world outside their windows which neither of them had a place in for now. He read to him, they did puzzles together, he began to teach him to play the violin, schooled him in the sciences and maths and cared for him, even though Victor understood very little of it at the time. Unfortunately, part of caring was locking the inquisitive child away and Victor hated that. Victor had such an empty mind when they began, he was a blank canvas that was soaking it all up faster than Sherlock could provide it, he longed to go out and find more, to explore the magical world that Sherlock told him about, that I disappeared out into every day. He would sit at the windows and stare out at the world that passed him by, hands splayed against the glass as it fogged under his breath, his nose just inches from the cold as he watched the gentle cascade of snowflakes,

"Why can't I go outside, dad?" I looked up from where I had just come through the door. I dumped my coat by the door, and crossed to sit next to him on the ledge under the window. Victor was in his pyjamas, and a glance at my watch confirmed that he was supposed to be in bed – which was probably where Sherlock was - and Sherlock had put him there before his escape. I wrapped an arm around Victor's shoulders, gently pushing the curls away from his pale face. He looked impossibly sad, and lonely, as he watched the people in the street, hurrying through the freezing cold on their way home or sitting together in their living rooms, the open curtains allowing Victor access into their world, to watch as siblings played together in their living rooms. His hands dropped into his lap and he looked up at me, eyes wide and sparkling with tears, "every day I see the others going out, to go to playgroup or to school father says, and I stay here. You get to leave, they get to leave, everyone leaves... but we don't. Father won't let me. He's ashamed of me... that's why he took down the mirrors, why he hides me away. He is ashamed because he created a monster-"

"Hey! Stop right there, Victor." I pulled him onto my lap, tipping his tiny face back to look me in the eye, nearly four years of age – at least in appearance – and he was already so intelligent and aware,

"You are not a monster and your father is not ashamed of you-"

"Then why does he lock me away?"

"Because he is frightened for you, for the both of you. You and your father are unique in this world," I gently traced the delicate spider web of scars across his skin. They were small, not too noticeable or red anymore, and starting to heal. The most prominent one was a wide cut from the top right hand corner of his eye, down his cheek, past the edge of his lip and down to his left clavicle, but even with his scars he was a surprisingly pretty boy, as perfect as Sherlock regardless of their so-called imperfections, embellishments I called them.

I smiled at him, "you are not a monster, you are perfect, but the way you were born would frighten people, your father's existence frightened them after his supposed death. He can't bear to lose you so he keeps you here, until he knows you can go out there and live without fear. But if he takes you out there now, he's scared of what they'll do to the two of you-"

"Because my scars are ugly-"

"You are beautiful, Victor. Sherlock is beautiful too; but people are shallow. They see the scars and the circumstances of your births and they can see no more, they do not deserve such perfect people. You are wasted on this world."

"Will I ever get to go to school? My scars aren't as bad as daddy thinks-"

"They're certainly healing, your father is very pleased even if he doesn't tell you. Just give him time-"

"He's had a year-"

"He's trying to keep you both safe."

"Doesn't it make him crazy? Being stuck inside every day, and only ever going out occasionally when it's night?"

"I think so, he hates not having his work. I mean he has his cold cases that your Uncle brings him but it's not the same. He needs to go out and adventure, and I can't imagine it'll be long before he listens to me and gives in."

Victor sighed, turning to look out the window again, watching the path of a single snowflake sliding down the glass,

"When will daddy's scars heal?" I sighed, ruffling the curls slightly as I pulled him on to my lap,

"I don't know, bud. They're getting better but... they were really severe, if he'd go to a hospital they may be able to help and arrange surgery but-"

"But I jumped off a building and faked my death so healthcare is rather sparse."

"Daddy!"

Victor leapt from my lap, flying across the room and pouncing into his father's arms,

"I woke up to find you had disappeared, and then I heard the two of you talking. Victor did you honestly think I was ashamed of you, that that was why we never go out and I cover the mirrors?" He nodded and Sherlock sighed, "it was never about you, Victor, at least not in the way you think. It was about you because I was protecting you but that is not the whole story. People believe me dead, despise me despite my status as deceased and would hunt me down just for being alive if they found out about me being here. And I don't want to risk that anger being directed, even in a small part, on to you and I also didn't want you to see how cruel people could be, to experience the hatred that I remember." He crossed to look out the window and I could see from the haunted look in his eyes that he was thinking about the freak show, his fingers unconsciously circling his wrist and the faint scars from the cuffs they'd made him wear. I put out a hand to stop their movement, gently taking his hand and saying softly,

"I've said this a thousand times over the past year, please just listen. It's hurting Victor, you know that now, you need to go outside. Perhaps you should give them a chance to prove you wrong, Sherlock. Just this once. People have changed, Sherlock. If you went out, scarred as you are, a lot of people would barely bat an eyelid now - they've become more compassionate. The hurled abuse and sneers and titters are a thing of the past; put on a disguise and take Victor down to the park, and see how much the world has changed for yourself."

Sherlock sighed, his hand reaching out to squeeze Victor's shoulder as his mind debated silently, until finally he relented, having been stubborn on the subject for long and apparently being tired of it. He wanted to go out to, I could see it in his face,

"Fine, I will, tomorrow. For now, the three of us are going to bed." I smiled, stretching out the knots in my back from working all day, trying to work the exhaustion out of my muscles,

"That sounds like a very good plan to me." Sherlock tugged on our still clasped hands to pull me to my feet, and gently led the three of us to the mine and Sherlock's shared bed, tucking us all in just minutes later, Victor sprawling out between us. It didn't even matter that the little boy kicked in his sleep or that I snored or that Sherlock had surprisingly cold feet considering how warm the rest of him was.

All that mattered was that we were together.

* * *

**AN. If I can tempt any of you, I've been writing a book and the first chapter is up on my fiction press account. I wanted to see if anyone thinks it is the sort of thing they would be tempted to continue reading, after the first chapter.**

Open up the fictionpress website and add this to the end of the URL after the .com add **/s/3117018/1/The-Sorcerer-s-Guild**

**Here's hoping you can all find it. Oh, and enjoy!**


	57. 2013 - Teaching Sherlock

**2013 - Teaching Sherlock**

**John POV**

It was incredibly strange seeing Sherlock out on the streets of London sans the big, swooshing coat tails. It made him look much smaller, as if he had shrunk although he was as tall as ever. He was wearing jeans and an untucked shirt, a warm but short navy coat thrown over the top and a woollen hat covering his head and his still reddish curls, his face partially covered by a scarf that could easily have been interpreted as a keeping-warm measure by passers-by after the snow fall last night. Apart from when he was wearing his pyjamas, I had yet to see him in anything except a suit and designer - if too small, although I don't think anyone was complaining – shirts. It made him look more human. He was in costume he told me, people are superficial in their observations and were less likely to recognise his face if they didn't recognise his general façade. He was also incredibly solemn as we walked, his eyes hard and carefully watching anyone who passed, daring them to take a second look and see beneath the clothes and almost scared that they would. He was anxious about they realising that it was him or them seeing the scars. He was carrying Victor, clutching him tight and shielding him, although the little boy didn't notice.

Victor, whilst as covered up as Sherlock, had the same innocence and poor understanding of human cruelty that Sherlock told me he had possessed when he was first released into the world. He didn't realise that people might point or stare or hurl abuse at him merely for looking different – it was a sad but unavoidable fact that bigots like that still existed – and just wanted to jump out of Sherlock's arms and explore. Just walking along the road, he pointed at anything and everything he saw, squealing and practically vibrating as he struggled in Sherlock's grasp to swivel round and get closer to everything, pointing and laughing. He was absolutely enraptured with the new world he was discovering, nothing seemed so magical as just a simple parking metre or a dog, it made me wonder what it would be like to look at the world through his eyes, where everything was new and wonderful and nothing was scary because he hadn't learnt what to be afraid of. I couldn't help but feel sad and disappointed in the world, knowing that in a few years Victor would understand why Sherlock's arms were so tense, why we had kept him in the flat for so long and why he was wrapped up. But for now I could smile at the sheer pleasure the world had to offer him right now, and grin along with him.

We arrived at the park to find it much busier than we'd been expecting, with children running around excitedly and throwing snowballs,

"What are they doing, father?" Sherlock looked over at them,

"They're having a snowball fight."

"Snowball fight." It was a habit of Victor's; whenever anyone said a new word he'd repeat it and roll it around his mouth, run it over his teeth and get a feel of it from all angles, before processing it and squirrelling it away, "I want to join in, it's looks fun."

"We can't Victor." The little boy's face crumpled,

"Why not? First, I can't go outside... and now I don't get to play. I want to play with the other children. Why not? Please, I'll be careful and I'll keep hidden! Please! Can I, please, join in?"

Seeing Victor's heartache seemed to wear Sherlock down, as if he was about to give, but suddenly the choice was out of his hands because a snowball flew through the air and collided with Victor. Another child, a four year old, who looked only a little bit older than Victor, ran up shouting,

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hit you!" Victor struggled to get down and, extremely reluctantly, Sherlock finally released him. Our son stepped forward, looking a mixture of frightened and so very excited as he stumbled forwards towards his first conversation with someone other than us, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. It was the first time had spoken to someone of his own age, his first entrance into the real world. From here everything could either go terribly wrong or be the best moment of his young life.

He looked up at me for confirmation that he was doing the right thing and I just nodded, smiling encouragingly and mouthing,

"Go on." He nodded and turned back,

"That's alright, it didn't hurt. Can I play?"

"Okay," he grinned, "why do you have you scarf pulled up like that?" Victor shuffled uncomfortably,

"Umm... my father and I look a bit different, so he said to keep my scarf up."

"Which one's your dad?" Victor looked puzzled,

"They both are." I held a baited breath for a second, worried for the other boy's reaction, but he simply shrugged and smiled,

"Cool, I don't have a dad, I just have a mum. You can take your scarf off, I don't mind. My big sister has a big birthmark on her face so she looks different too but I don't care, 'cos she's my sister."

Victor's eyes instantly swivelled up to Sherlock's, unsure of how to continue and seeking confirmation. Sherlock sighed and – to my own surprise – pulled his own scarf aside. The other boy barely batted an eyelash and Sherlock smiled slightly at the lack of response, but nodding to Victor,

"Go on Victor, you can take your scarf off." Our son still looked worried but slowly reached up, removing his scarf as well and following Sherlock's example,

"So that's your name? Victor?"

"Yeah, what's yours?"

"David, it's a boring name. I like your name more."

"I'm named after my granddad. What about you?"

"I don't really know. Mum?!" He turned to a woman who was jogging up to us, looking very out of breath running in such cold weather and very apologetic, "who am I named after?"

"You're named after my uncle, who died a few days before you were born. Now, stop bothering the nice men and go back to your game. I'm so sorry-" I smiled,

"Oh it's no bother," I held out a hand for her to shake, "I'm John and this is my partner, Edward." We'd already agreed that Sherlock needed a false name.

Her eyes instantly went to Sherlock's scars when I pointed to him but then she smiled warmly, showing as little aversion to them as her son had,

"It's nice to meet you two; I must say you both look very familiar. Does one of your children attend my school?" Sherlock shook his head, knowing exactly why she recognised us but saying nothing,

"No, Victor's our only child."

"Yes, I suppose I would notice if I had a child at my school with two fathers. Where does Victor go to school?"

"He doesn't at the moment, Edward's home-schooling him."

"Oh? Why's that?" Sherlock's face hardened slightly,

"Well you can clearly see that I've got a fair few scars and, unfortunately, so does Victor. I know very well how cruel children can be."

She nodded gravely but then smiled, pointing to where Victor was playing with the other boys, looking more excited than I'd ever seen him,

"Yes, but clearly you don't see how kind they can be as well. Give them a chance and a lot of children will be very accepting, they don't have the same prejudices we do – those come from the parents. But if children are around children like Victor, children who are different, from a young age then they can grow up to be more accepting."

"I'm afraid I don't really want to use my son as a guinea pig for that theory. When I was growing up I was hounded, taunted and attacked on more than one occasion for my scars, I'm not letting Victor take that same chance. If I keep him home then he's safe and I can make sure no-one hurts him-"

"And you can make sure no one cares for him, too. If you don't let him out into the world he won't make any enemies but he won't make any friends either. If you'd stayed locked away for ever you wouldn't have met John, would you?"

"No," Sherlock's voice lowered and I smirked, she had a point there and Sherlock hated being even the slightest bit wrong, "how about you enrol him at my school? I run a public school but we can put him onto a scholarship if you can't afford it-"

"I can but how do you know I'll want him there? Can you guarantee his safety?"

"Absolutely. We have a no bullying policy, if his safety or happiness is in doubt at any time then we'll deal with it swiftly and efficiently, I promise you. I'll prove to you that you're wrong to hide him away, and I hope I can prove you wrong about the world."

Sherlock gave her a calculating look, she was a small woman – she looked rather like Molly and like she should be a timid little thing – and yet she seemed strong and fiery. He nodded, before pulling a pen and paper from his pocket and scribbling something down,

"This is my brother's number, he'll organise everything including the fees." She smiled, tucking the card into her front pocket,

"You won't regret this."

"No, I won't because if I do... well, you'll regret it quite a bit more. Trust me."

"I'll bear that in mind. I think we're going to get along very well, Mr Holmes." And with that she winked and walked away. I looked at Sherlock in shock,

"Is your name on that paper?"

"No."

"Then how does she know-"

"She's a very intelligent woman, apparently more observant that most. Come John, let's sit down over there."

"Are you really going to let Victor go to school?"

"Yes, it's only fair to him."

"But you're so overprotective. I've been trying to get you to let him leave the house for a flat and suddenly he's going to school? I just can't imagine you letting him out of your sight."

"I won't be letting him out of my sight; I'll have Mycroft's CCTV carefully watching him at all times."

"Do you think he'll be alright?"

"I don't know, John. But I think... I think I might have been too harsh on this world."

"Are you going to give it another chance then?"

"Perhaps. And besides, I'm getting more bored by the day without any cases. I think that it's time I come back from the dead."

* * *

**AN. Just a little reminder, I've put up the first chapter of my book and I'd love to know what you think of the idea so far. Go to fictionpress's main website and after the .com in the URL just add **/s/3117018/1/The-Sorcerers-Guild


	58. 2013 - Prejudice

**2013 - Prejudice**

**Sherlock POV**

The flat was in darkness when I got back from my night shift; Victor was sleeping at David's house for the night, and Sherlock had dropped him off earlier, so I was expecting Sherlock to be sleeping or busying himself in research for his current case. Normally, I would get a text from Sherlock every couple of hours just updating me on where he was, or how he was, so I would know not to worry when he wasn't at home. That or he would send... how do I put this delicately? Saucy texts. It's always a bit awkward when you're about to go in and see an eighty year old woman and your partner sends you a... visibly exciting text, you can't really look her in the eye when you have to cross your legs to get through the conversation. But today there was nothing; no messages, no calls, and no visits to fill his hours, which worried me.

I had expected Sherlock to have one of his occasional migraines, brought on by the slightly mismatched cranial bones from how Victor had constructed his skull, which occasionally caused pressure to build up and led to a slight ache. I did not expect to walk into to a wall of smells including – but not limited to - cigarette smoke, whiskey and various other potent alcoholic drinks, in a sickening cocktail that bombarded my nostrils. I panicked slightly, Sherlock was prone to dark moods but normally it was just sulking, this was unusual,

"Sherlock?" I called out, the feeling of being extremely ill at ease only building when there was no response, I edged further into the flat and looked all around. There was no sign of him in the gloom. There was a crunch beneath my feet which made me jump in my shock. I looked down to see the slight glitter of a broken mirror sprayed across the floor, with what seemed to be spattered with freckles of blood, Sherlock's blood I imagine. Panic rose up in me; had one of the protestors broken in, seen that Sherlock was alive and decided to take matters into his hands? Had an old criminal with a grudge come looking for payback for putting him behind bars? Or had it just been Sherlock's knack for attracting trouble?

"John?" I whipped my head round, my eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom as I searched for the source of the noise, and spotted it,

"Sherlock- what happened?" I jumped across the room, to where he was curled into a ball in the corner, knees tucked protectively into his chest, eyes fixed angrily on his knees, hands resting over them. Hands which were bleeding profusely I noted, "oh my God, Sherlock!"

"I smashed the mirror." I blinked, I hadn't even thought about that,

"What? Why did you do that?"

"Look at me John!"

"I am looking but all I'm seeing is a self-pitying man who has shredded his own hands-"

"Then, as per usual, you do not see the truth. Look at me John, really look at me, and say you don't see the monster."

"I don't!" His head snapped round, maddened and looking like a hell hound, reminding me of the night in the pub, on Henry Knight's case,

"I am monstrous; I'm scarred and repulsive, hacked to pieces, a hideous jigsaw. I'm looking at my scars for the first time in decades and I feel sick. I never loathed them so much as I do now." His head dropped again, glaring at the blood on his hands, as I gently rested mine on top of one, avoiding the splinters of glass and saying gently,

"Why? I love you Sherlock, I love your scars, and I don't understand why you are falling to pieces now, after living with these scars for so long, you must be used to it-" There were tears in his eyes, as he continued to glare at the cuts, fiddling with a particularly large shard of mirror protruding from his knuckle,

"That's just it John, I'm not anymore. I had a perfect face, I was normal, and I could go out in public without feeling embarrassed or ashamed, now look at me, reduced to living in the shadows again. I had hope once and it paid off, but now it's been snatched out from underneath me and I don't know how I can get it back, if I even can-"

"Of course you can-" He laughed, a bitter chuckle that jarred against the lump in his throat,

"No I can't because I understand now. I look at my scars and understand what they mean, I'm no longer young and naïve, I know exactly what they mean to myself and to the world and I know what to expect, the onslaught of hatred-"

"Sherlock! What brought this on? You were convinced the other day that people had changed, I thought David and his mother showed you that there are good people out there-"

"I didn't need convincing of that, I already knew there are. One of them's sat right next to me." I smiled, "I needed convincing that the hatred has decreased, but it hasn't, not really." He looked up at me and finally I saw the source of the trouble, a littering of bright red burn marks across the other side of his face that looked like they had come from a cigarette lighter, and were only a few hours old,

"What happened?"

"I had just dropped Victor off at his 'play-date' and I was walking home. A small girl had fallen off her bike in the park and looked upset, so I stopped to help her. She was nice enough, you'd probably melt over her, and she didn't seem frightened by my scars when I took my scarf off, since I didn't want her to think I was about to kidnap her, but then I started to take the stones out of the skin of her knee and she started to cry because it stung. A group of men rushed over, shouting at me to leave the little girl alone, calling me disgusting things, and when she was scared off by the men, they saw my face and... two of them held me down, and you can see what they did."

"Oh my God." He drew in tighter,

"I got off lightly, they were going to do worse; a policeman noticed what they were doing and shouted at them before they could manage it. I recognised him from Scotland Yard so I ran off the second they let me go; I didn't need him knowing it was me. I came home and I just thought, what's the point? Why do I bother trying to be part of it all, trying to continue on with my life? When I can't even help a little kid without being tortured?" I hissed slightly, I would go and find those men later, Mycroft could probably find them, and I would bloody kill them, but for now Sherlock needed me,

"The point of carrying on is me and Victor, we don't want to see you wallowing in here for the rest of the life, rotting away. We want to be a family and to go outside and we want you to be happy. It happened once, it'll happen again, you can't hide away forever you know."

"Oh contraire, I once hid away for fifty seven years, I'm sure I could do it again."

"And you would miss out on everything in Victor's childhood! As much as you want to wrap him up in bubble wrap and keep him inside for the rest of his life, that's not going to happen, his life is outside in the fresh air and freedom and you have to be part of that."

"Fine," he sulked.

"Did you really stay inside for fifty seven years?"

"Yes, I was a bit depressed after I left Elizabeth."

"Just a bit." I smiled slightly and then went to get my first aid kit, to bandage his hands, when I returned he looked up at me and said thoughtfully,

"I have some plans on what I would do if I ever had to hide away again, rather than just sit in the house and sulk."

"Okay, lay it on me."

"I know a fair bit of French; I think I could convince the archdeacon of the Notre Dame cathedral to let me frequent the bell towers." I knew he was just doing it to cheer me up, to make light of the situation and it did slightly help, but I just shook my head,

"It's a good plan, but you know nothing about bell ringing and your back is perfectly straight." He frowned,

"How do you know that I don't have any knowledge about bell ringing?"

"Well you just... you can't, it's not something you would have information about! You would have deleted it and how would you get it anyway?"

"I spent six months training in campanology to investigate the death of three parish members in a church in Italy, after the priest was accused of killing them."

"Did he?"

"No, he was framed by a wet bell and a number of thunderstorms."

"Oh, well that's good-"

"He was arrested anyway, after I discovered that he had not only been having an affair with three of the nuns, one of whom was pregnant – not an arrest able offence – but also stealing the silver from the altar and getting up to some... rather unsavoury acts with the choirboys."

"That's definitely not good. But we've squashed the bell ringing dream due to your lack of scoliosis; although I suppose it can be a back-up due to your training as a... what was it again?"

"Campanologist. I suppose there are other options for hiding. Sticking with the French theme, I could go live in Frankenstein manor and possibly lure an eccentric inventor to my castle using my dancing cutlery, I'm sure I could invent some, until his beautiful daughter forces me to let her take her father's place. Eventually, we will fall in love and live happily ever after."

"Right, well you're not a beast for one, you're human, and for another I'm a little bit offended that I don't factor into this equation," I plucked a piece of mirror out of his hand vindictively, making him hiss, "and also haven't you had enough of eccentric inventor fathers, after your own?"

"True. If I taught you French then I suppose I could let you be the French daughter of an inventor-"

"My father was a plumber."

"We could tell people that he invented indoor plumbing."

"Quite blatantly a lie."

"I bet I could convince at least five people otherwise."

"Fine, do it by the end of the month and I won't ask you to get the milk for the next month. Was that all your ideas?" He sat back, thinking hard for a minute and only wincing slightly as I used my tweezers to pluck a shard out of his palm,

"Again, sticking with the French - those people seem obsessed with deformity - I could find half a white mask and a cape, hide in the Opera Populaire. I received some classical training when I was-"

"On a case?"

"No, in the London Symphony Orchestra, before I started taking Cocaine I spent some time touring with them and one of my colleagues trained me in opera. I could use that training and sing about the music of the night to an attractive soprano, and before you object... we could get someone to tutor you in raising your voice and singing the soprano's parts."

"Again, no, that's just... just no. All brilliant and entertaining suggestions-"

"I aim to please-"

"But you're never going into hiding again, we're going to get you out into the word again and you're not going to be a phantom, beast or hunchback, okay? You're going to be Sherlock. One thing I must note, I'm slightly impressed you know about any of those stories, why haven't you deleted them?"

"They all spoke to me, in one way or another, it didn't seem right to delete stories that reminded me of my own torments and struggles. And interestingly enough, I actually had a case not long ago of a man attempting to recreate the murders from the original Gaston Leroux classic."

"Really?"

"Yes, he even had a young soprano fill the role of Christine; they wanted to recreate the whole story, to make them both famous and infamous respectively. They only managed to kill the equivalent of Joseph Buquet; luckily I stopped any further murders."

"Good, I hope you get another case like that soon."

"Why because it'll keep me busy?"

"Because I could do with the trip to France, a holiday would be very nice." We both giggled, as I sat side by side with my partner, shoulder to shoulder, and he muttered,

"There won't be any more cases... I'm dead, there's nothing to solve anymore. Even if I was alive, people either don't trust me or they don't believe in me. I will never be able to return to the work."

"We'll see." We sat in amiable silence for a little while and then I spoke quietly, "Sherlock, I do know a little bit how you feel, you know?" He looked at me, quizzically, "the feeling ashamed and embarrassed in public. When I came back from Afghanistan... the limp, the cane... and the sniggers of 'cripple', it was embarrassing. I was a soldier and a doctor, I'd always felt confident and proud of that and I'd been reduced to being pitied and laughed at in the street. And the scar on my shoulder, there's a reason I never let you see it around the flat, I felt like it showed that I had failed, that I was alone and pathetic, and it was ugly... I was ugly-"

"You're not ugly!"

"No, and neither are you! I realise now, now that I have you, that you would love me even if I had lost all of my limbs in that war, even if I was horrifically scarred or nothing more than a head because the rest had been blown off. I look at my scar now and I see its story, how I got it from fighting and how it brought my home, and how it's the reason we met. It might not be attractive and occasionally it aches... but it's a good thing, and I appreciate it. Maybe you hate the scars now but then you'll realise, that they're there because you did a good thing. You stood up to Moriarty and his plans, you did your best even though they tortured you, that the scars that lay beneath made you, quite literally, and made you who you are.

"We wouldn't be here if you didn't have those scars and neither would Victor, and if it weren't for those scars... you would never have felt so protective of Victor, never have felt the desire to escape from Moriarty so strongly, and both of you might still be in this clutches. So don't hate yourself, think about the good things they represent." He wrapped a now bandaged hand around mine, squeezing gratefully as he dropped his head to rest it on my shoulder,

"I will. Thank you, John." I nodded, pressing my lips to his forehea and I murmured against the skin,

"I love you."

"I love you too.


	59. 2013 - Anticipation

**2013 - Anticipation**

**John POV**

Sherlock was sat on the very edge of his seat; his entire body was rigid and his eyes were flickering across everything. He was automatically deducing things about the teapot or the switched on television but not taking in the information his brain was providing, it was just a continuous stream through his mind. I could see his fingers rapidly tapping against his knee, his other hand reached up to press his lips, and trace the ridge of scar tissue just above the corner of his down-turned mouth,

"You don't have to do this, Sherlock." His eyes flicked to me, staring me down with hardness in their moonstone eyes – his gaze was so hard that the irises could have been replaced by the actual precious stone – before moving away just as quickly. The movement was so fast that if I'd blinked I wouldn't have even known his gaze had fallen upon me at all,

"We both know it is inevitable," he muttered through the curve of his fingers.

"I'm just saying that if you want to back out you can."

"No, we both know that it has to happen now.

"Look, you're the one who called the Press conference-"

"Yes, John, I was aware of that-"

"You know what I was going to say." A small smile twitched at the corner of his lips,

"Yes, I do, don't I? I always do."

I crossed the room, pressing the cup of tea and saucer into his hands – which had now dropped into his lap – and smiling slightly,

"So, what was I going to say?"

"You were, obviously, going to say that I know my reasons for calling the Press conference better than anyone, and if I genuinely thought I didn't have to do it then I wouldn't. But evidently I have every reason to, and therefore I have to do it."

"And your reasons?"

"For Victor's safety, for the continuation of my Consulting work and the subsequent prevention of many murders – including those that I myself would have committed through the sheer boredom caused by not having any causes - and so that I can go out in public once more and, lastly, so I can see that not everyone despises me."

"I didn't realise that would be once of your reasons-"

"It's not; it's yours. I know you see the good in people; the only way to cope with seeing the worst of them in the war was to believe that there was goodness and decency in all of them. As much as you know of their cruelty, you desperately want to believe that they'll accept me, despite their past record, or they'll at least accept Victor. If they turn away a child because they cannot see the beauty and innocence underneath the scars then your view of mankind would be irrevocably damaged. Perhaps it would be a good thing to pull your head out from the clouds and show you that not everyone smiles, and they are in fact sneering."

"You know as well as I do that I can see the bad; you know I see the criminals and the villains and the bleak grey of everyday life. When you always see that, isn't it good to look for the kindness in everyone rather than just see the rapists, the murderers and the abusers. Is it so bad to try to see the good in people?"

"It's a foolish ambition," he said, but then looked up and smiled at me fondly, "noble, but ultimately foolish. If you could walk in my shoes for a day then you'd see the way things truly are and even the attempt to see the good would be futile. You'd understand what it means to be shunned."

I reached out a hand to take his and was shocked by how cold and clammy it was – I could even feel it shaking slightly. He was trying to put out that he didn't care but, beneath it all, he was terrified. He didn't want to go back to how things were. He'd grown used to being hard over his lifetime but he'd come to let his guard down when life go better for him; now he was back where he was vulnerable. He wanted to be proved wrong but he had too much evidence to the contrary. He didn't look up but he squeezed back on my hand thankfully,

"Sherlock, you've had a horrible past and you may be back walking in your old pair of shoes – shoes which rub and hurt you, and that you hoped never to have to put on again – but the path you're walking on is different. People have changed, maybe not all of them but things are different. And for those people who haven't... well just remember that you have Victor - who shares your scars and doesn't even look at them - and you have me. I love your scars. I think they make you and Victor even more beautiful. I've said it before; those scars are embellishments, not flaws, and physical markers of your life and of your strength and your courage, where you've been and what you've survived. You need to show everyone that, think of Victor as your incentive for making people believe that. If they see it then he can go out one day without fear and without judgement; you need to change people's attitudes for his future, as well as yours." Sherlock nodded, curls bouncing slightly,

"Okay. Call Mycroft and tell him we'll be there soon."

I put a hand on his shoulder, still clutching his in mine, and pushing him down as he tried to stand,

"Have I ever told you how proud of you I am?" He smirked,

"In every sentence and every imaginable form."

"Then I've clearly been lax; I should be telling you in every word and every look and every kiss and touch. You should know I'm thinking it without even having to look at me. You make me proud every second. You're so strong, Sherlock, show the world that and make them accept you; one day you'll be free of their judgement and I'll be there for you well past that time. I won't ever leave your side." He smiled, climbing to his feet and straightening his suit,

"Thank you, John. Shall we go? The whole world's waiting for me to make a statement-"

"The whole world doesn't know you're alive yet; they're waiting for my statement actually."

"Well, that's just another reason to not keep them waiting a second longer than necessary. A world without Sherlock Holmes is a dark and dreary place." I leant forwards to kiss him, swiftly and gently, making him smile against my lips,

"My world without Sherlock Holmes would be – and was, in fact – quite simply unbearable. Come on then."

* * *

**AN. Sad little thought; I went through and counted just now and realised there's only twelve chapters left after this one. Not long until the end I think, which is very sad because this has been my baby for almost a year. However, rather excitingly, we have some entirely new content coming up in a few chapters (i.e. we've almost gotten up to where my first draft left off) so that's very cool!**


	60. 2013 - The press conference

**2013 - The press conference**

**Sherlock POV**

Walking towards that door had the feeling of walking to the executioner's block; it was the feeling of walking to one's death, yet it was the feeling of liberation. In just a few seconds, I would be free from the immortal coil that had been nearly two hundred years of existence to join their mortal coil, and I would be liberated of my bonds. They would know.

They would know.

It was really happening.

Two more breathes to calm myself. Think of Victor. Think of John.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Left foot. Right foot.

Break it all down to simple physiological processes that you know how to do; you've been breathing and walking for two hundred years you can keep doing so now, Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade's talking on the other side of the door - where John's waiting for me. I can't hear what he's saying, my blood is pounding too hard in my ears; my entire body is thrumming with adrenaline and shaking with fear, with the anticipation, for what is about to unfold.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Left foot. Right foot.

For two hundred years I had hid in the shadows, in the darkness of abandoned houses and of gutters and forests. Even when John's blog gained us a certain fame, I always had my disguise – my public persona – which could easily by whipped out to hide what was beneath, and to hide who and what I really was. Now I was stripping myself of that disguise, and exposing my true self. I was to feel truly naked and exposed for the first time. They could embrace it or turn from it in disgust.

No turning back.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Left foot. Right foot.

If they hated what I was... then they would no longer hate me because they could not understand, because I was guarded and arrogant. Instead, they would hate me for what I was on the most fundamental level. They would hate me for who I am and not what they perceive.

Today, they are about to know that I am not one of them, not really.

No going back, I'm at the door and my hand is poised to grasp the handle; I can see Lestrade through the little window, and I can see John sat behind him. He's not looking the reporters in the eyes and it's confusing them. They still think they're here for John's statement.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

My bodyguard listens to a message in his ear and then leans across to say,

"Sherlock, they're ready for you."

Grasp the handle. Push the door. Head up and show them you're not afraid. Stop shaking. Don't pay attention to them looking at your scars. Don't listen to them shouting. Don't hear the shock or the horror. Ignorance. Focus on John. He's smiling.

Breathe in.

Left foot.

Breathe out.

Right foot.

Not much further, no running now. You can't turn away now, you can't be a coward anymore, because they know you're alive. Tell them the truth.

They're shouting my name. It's like the room has turned to one swirl of colour and lightening, and the brilliant flash of white is burning into my retinas. It's blinding and deafening and sickening all in one. I can hardly bare it. I can't tell up from down and if it weren't for John's expression, of encouragement, anchoring me and the firm hand on my back pushing me forward - my bodyguard's other hand is stuck forward to keep the sea of photographers back - I would most likely have turned back and abandoned the endeavour.

And then I'm stood before the microphone and people are shouting questions, I can't distinguish one from the other.

It's too late to turn back now.

Breathe in. Hold it. Slow your heart. Calm yourself.

Interrupt their noise.

"If it's alright with my audience; I must ask that you all be silent so that I can give my statement, and then I will take a few of your queries. I will endeavour to answer all of your questions but if I do not... well that's tough. I plan to leave regardless and will lose no sleep over it."

Silence fell.

Now.

"The falsification of my death was the direct result of Jim Moriarty - a criminal mastermind, as I informed you all long ago. He had pursued me, trapped me and finally hunted me into the ground - quite literally - and all but pushed me over that ledge. He intended to leave you all to pick apart the pieces of my carcass. He forced me to fake my death, and to leave all those that I care for - yes, I did indeed say care - and then he tortured me."

I took a deep breath, staving off the memories before I continued, "He gave me the scars you see today; until recently, he kept me prisoner and forced me to help him with his mission. It was during this period of suffering that you all turned on me and learnt the truth about Moriarty, and began to trust me again. Then, just as you believed me innocent of the crimes of kidnap and fraudulent genius, you learnt the truth."

A hand rose in the audience, a question, but I shot it down with a look, "The truth is that, in 1818, I was born at the University of Ingolstadt in Germany – which makes me just over 195 years old - and yes I look very good for my age." Hands went up, cameras flashed and the scratch of pen on paper was the only sound as the pressure in the room seemed to build and push in on me from all directions.

Lestrade broke this time,

"Can we not have any interruptions, please? Mr Holmes has already specified that he would prefer to finish before he takes questions." The hands dropped again and I nodded in gratitude to Lestrade,

"As I was saying, I was the product of a mad man's science. I am the creation of Victor Frankenstein; he built me from the decaying body parts stolen from graves. He was repulsed by me. I could not speak, I was barely able to move except for mad flailing, I was animalistic and naked and I bore the horrific scars you see today. In his eyes, I was not his child, I was his monster and he was ashamed. Understandably, he ran from me and left me to humanity's mercy, but your kind does not have mercy, and they had even less in the years of my youth. They loathed me and I them. I would never care for men when I was treated in such a way; I fought them as hard as they did me and I won in some cases - I beat them for the suffering they caused me. I have regretted those victories ever since.

"Eventually, Victor died and left me alone once again, and I carried on. In the years that followed many things happened: I fell in love, I had a child and an entire line of descendants, I raised my brother, I fought a war and I became a good man and a doctor. Eventually, many years down the line, I took up my work here as a detective. By that time my scars had faded and I was a man like any of you - if a genius one. I found John and I finally had the acceptance, the humanity and the love I had strived for, for many years. Though I had my scars burnt into my skin once more, I am still a man and I retain the humanity I had before my supposed death. I wish to carry on with my work and to live the rest of my mortal life, and that is why I stand before you."

"Mr Holmes will now take your questions."

The questions were as expected, and were mostly ethics or science based: did I wish Victor had never created me? How had I lived so long? How was I different to humans? Where did my body come from; did I know who my right leg belonged to for example? I knew exactly who each body part had belonged to, but I certainly didn't tell them that. It would be disrespectful to their living descendants - who might not wish to know what had become of their family member. The questions continued: how did I come to life? What did I think about people's positive response to my existence? What did I think about the less positive responses? Did I feel disgusted by my existence?

The question I had hoped wouldn't come up, but had known was inevitable, was posed by a small, mousy woman towards the back, who spoke with the quiet assurance of knowing that she had the question they all wanted to know the answer to,

"Are there any more of your kind? Did Victor or anyone else make more... could anyone make more?" I grimaced and everyone perked up. They were instantly desperate for the answer,

"No, I am not the only one of my kind – although I am the first." There was a collective intake of horror, and shock, "but Victor did not make the others; there's only one person alive now that could and I am not going to share the information of their identity - or of the others of my kind - for their protection. But yes, there are more of us now, but the others are young and vulnerable. So far they have caused no trouble and I am working on getting them into my care and guiance. They will remain anonymous until such a time as they become a threat to the human population-"

"Your partner was recently seen out with a small boy, with scars like yours, is he-" I froze, knowing exactly what the reporter was referring to. John had started to take Victor to school a few weeks ago, our son had absolutely adored it, but unfortunately a photographer had caught them out and pictures were now plastered all over the place. Everyone was asking his identity,

"That's our son and I would thank you all kindly if you would leave him, or John, out of this or I will take legal action-"

"Is he adopted?"

"In a way."

"Is he like you?"

"He is my son. Think what you will, but that is all that matters to me. Now, I have had enough of these questions."

My hands were still shaking when we reached home. The interview was all over the news a few hours later, I didn't watch and I didn't read the articles in the paper by the morning. I was the big news story for the next month, Victor included, and you can imagine the public's reaction.

But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that I was home, andI had my family and a particularly interesting case had just been brought to my attention.


	61. 2013 - Killer instinct

**2013 - Killer Instinct**

**John POV**

Sherlock wasn't bouncing around the crime scene with his usual vim and vigour - at least not anymore. In fact, he looked almost... disappointed, and not in the you-gave-me-an-easy-case-but-made-me-feel-excited- you-morons sort of way that I had expected. He wasn't even shouting at Anderson. Although that might have been because Anderson was stood to the side with Donovan, the latter shooting Sherlock unreadable looks and the former looks of bubbling hatred and disgust. He might have apologised at the funeral, but Anderson's attitude had definitely returned once he learnt about Sherlock's background.

They hadn't said anything to him on his first case since he had come back from the dead; they seemed to have been stuck in their own heads ever since Sherlock's press conference a few hours ago. They - out of everyone in Scotland Yard - had the most access to Sherlock's file, because they were involved in working with that prick of a superintendent to arrest him. Unfortunately, this meant they knew about Sherlock's crimes - although they hadn't said anything about it yet – but I was fairly certain that wouldn't end well when they did pluck up the courage. If they had been insufferable about the 'freak/psychopath' before then I could only imagine the rot in their brains now. I could almost hear Sherlock's sarcastic voice in my head now, responding to my thought, "well there wouldn't be very to rot."

I smirked and turned to back to watch my partner walking slowly and carefully around the body. I would give anything for the Sherlock in front of me to just insult someone and match the one in my head, because he at the moment he just looked so damn melancholy. Perhaps he was just stumped... but then again he was deducing a minute ago – the cogs in his brain whirling away – and some of the genius had been spilling forth. He'd just stopped and now he was staring at the floor; what had he seen to make him so sad? I longed to walk over, take his hand and ask what was wrong, but I knew he wouldn't reply at the moment. He was too caught up in his thoughts. Not only that but he wasn't comfortable with public displays of affection so the hand holding would only make him uncomfortable. I would just have to talk to him when we got home to the privacy of our flat.

He had started as usual; we'd left the press conference and been bundled into a taxi by Lestrade, who took us into the very heart of the abandoned factories in the Docklands. The body had been found in an underpass; cold, grimy, graffiti staining the walls, and hardly the last place anyone would want to see before they died. The scrawling across the wall was almost impressive in its detail. Although I couldn't help but resent it; I'd never quite gotten over the sting of having an ASBO. Mycroft could have gotten me out of it but he thought it was funny, and preferred to watch me suffer.

Police had filled the underpass by the time we reached it, and were taping off the ends to prevent the public coming near – although the only people I could imagine here were drug addicts, their dealers and prostitutes - and putting up lights to penetrate the gloom. The UV lights were illuminating an alarming amount of bodily fluids in the tunnel. All of which were no doubt from the years of violence, sex and drunken Saturday night urination that had probably occurred here.

The body was that of a woman. She was lying face down and had quite amazingly long hair fanned around her head in a bright blonde halo. Her pale skin was only visible through the gaps between her coat and her gloves, and the rest was covered by clothing or curls. Sherlock had ducked down instantly, and looked her over as only he could, all humanity hidden as he took in only the facts. It was at these times he really resembled what he essentially was – a machine, built for a certain purpose - and Victor might not have realised it at the time but this was Sherlock's primary directive, to solve cases and be brilliant and logical. He had begun whirring off explanations and his mouth was robotic as they popped into his head automatically,

"Born in Scotland, the tartan Scottie Dog key chain's a clear indicator, but she lives here now judging by the fact three different items of clothing are from local retailers and all of different ages. Early twenties, obviously a student; she uses heavy concealor to cover the bags under her eyes, which are clearly the sign of late night studying and partying. Another hint being that she has a bag which is clearly stretched to carry books, and one of which is still in there - a small diary with a periodic table on it, so chemistry student. Seems intelligent, certainly a keen student judging by the slight callous I can feel on her right index finger from where she presses the pen whilst writing."

"That's all very well, but do you have any idea of who killed her though-" Sherlock shot a look at Lestrade, silently telling him to shut up and not put him off his roll,

"The boyfriend is a jealous type and justifiably so. No faithful partner keeps her engagement secret by putting the ring on the chain around her neck; she's been having affairs, and clearly she didn't want to chase off prospective better partners. Obviously he didn't like that, and they had an argument- no, before you ask, he's not the murderer. The wound is a deep blow to the head in a carefully calculated spot that would result in instant haemorrhage. This was someone who knew what they were doing. The blow was confident and precise, no hand shaking or emotion - not the mark of an accidental killing or a spur of the moment act. And a crime of passion would certainly not have left the engagement ring behind like this murderer - sentiment dictates the boyfriend would have taken it back if he killed her in jealousy - but a person with no emotional attachment would leave it. There was no money taken, her phone expensive but next to her, and the laptop is still in her bag. This was murder for the purpose of murder-" This had been when he stopped, eyes fixing on something. For nearly a minute, everything was frozen in time - as we watched him, and he simply stared at the floor, nobody breathing or speaking - then he ducked,

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He shook his head, and straightened up again. I think I was the only one who noticed Sherlock slip the mobile phone at her side into his pocket. I frowned, Sherlock didn't usually move evidence. He didn't normally need to. Was this going to be a repeat of the Study in Pink and using the phone to find the killer? Then, slowly but assuredly, he turned to Lestrade and spoke quietly,

"I know who committed the crime." Lestrade nodded, clearly expecting more, and when Sherlock didn't continue he questioned,

"Aren't you going to tell me your conclusion?"

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Can't or won't?" Sherlock look at him, considering for a minute, and then said,

"Won't. I made a vow to myself some time ago to protect this particular murderer."

"You can't be serious."

"I can be and I am. I refuse to say a word about their identity-"

"Sherlock, that's obstruction of justice. I could arrest you for that!" For a second my Sherlock was back, and snapping at him sarcastically,

"Oh because arresting me went so well last time, didn't it?" Lestrade, and I think the whole of Scotland Yard, flinched but before they could recover he had spun around in a whirl of coat tails and begun walking away. He looked like he would break into a jog at any second as he departed, a sign he was no longer interested in the case or - as it seemed this time - not ready to hand over his conclusions. I contemplated following for a second but I knew he wanted time alone, I could see it on his face. He needed to process what he had just learnt. Apparently, whoever had done this meant a fair deal to Sherlock.

Once the detective was out of earshot the spell was broken; everyone exhaled their collectively baited breathes and then the silence shattered, as the muttering started up again, and Lestrade turned to me,

"Any idea what that was about?

"I'm afraid not."

"Can you talk to him? Get him to tell us who the murderer is?"

"When he's like this? I can't imagine that I would want to know. It's clearly important and I have to respect his decision. Give him time, if the person's going to kill again than I'm certain Sherlock will catch him and – even if he doesn't bring him to you – he will bring the criminal to some form of justice."

"Fine, I'll give him some time. God knows I paid the price for not trusting him before. But John, I have to know at some point, it's the law. I can't play with that. This is Sherlock's work and it's also his hobby, but it's my _job_. I'm paid to do this and I made a commitment to solve these cases; I can't just pick and choose according to Sherlock's whims. Trust me when I say that this little performance will reach my seniors and they'll force a revelation of some form out of him."

"Do you honestly think they can force anything out of Sherlock?"

"No, perhaps not, but they can stop Sherlock getting any access to the cases by removing me from the department. Mycroft can do his bit to keep us both out of trouble for now, but if my superiors catch on that I had Sherlock here and the case has remained unsolved... well they'll know something's happened."

"I'll work on it."

"Thank you, that's all I ask."

* * *

**Sherlock POV**

I didn't run. That would have been even more suspicious. I simply walked away briskly, as I usually did when I was bored of a case - or trying to give that impression in this situation - and made my escape. The plan was to hightail it through the streets of London, and return to Baker Street. Somewhere along the line my brain must had disengaged - as it often did on these walks - and carried me to a spot where I often went to think. I only stopped when I was out of breath and the blood was pounding in my ears. I paused as I was catching my breath, and look around; I was by the Thames and only a ten minute walk from the crime scene.

I dropped down onto the low wall nearby to look out over the stretch of grass and down on the river. The day was as bleak and grey as I felt in that moment, and reflected weakly off of the water in a thoroughly undazzling way. I wished I had the strength to go home, and face John. I just wanted to go home, lie on the sofa and sleep until I could go to get Victor from school to cheer me up. A woman walked past me with her dog; she looked up and was about to smile sheepishly - as normal people do when they pass a stranger and accidentally make eye-contact - but then she caught sight of my scars. Her mouth dropped into that all too familiar o-shape and then she ducked her head in embarassment and carried on walking. I had to fight that angry flare in my chest and instead looked down at the phone in my hands bitterly. My grasp squeezed tight on the plastic in my anger. I just wanted to go home and hide away - as I had done for decades at a time - but I knew that I had been hiding for too long. I'd been complacent and now I was the cause of a death - even if it was not by my hand directly.

The phone I was now holding in my hands had bleeped beside the body, as I was making my deductions, so quickly no-one else had heard it. I suppose it might have been because my hearing was quite a deal more accurate than theirs. All of my senses were heightened by years of tuning them. I'd dipped down, crouching to look at the message displayedm and then stole it when I realised its meaning. I doubted anyone had noticed my thievery, except John of course – he always noticed when it came to me. His eyes had narrowed, and I knew he was disappointed that I hadn't revealed a murderer, and I also knew we would be having a 'little chat' later. It hadn't mattered to me in that moment; all that had mattered was the message.

It was a picture; it was blurred because clearly the woman's hand had been shaking as she took it. She was terrified and crying I imagine - she was after all just seconds away from death. The picture did still show me exactly what I needed to see. An entirely impassive man was stood in front of her; his face was impossibly perfect and slightly feminine in its symmetrical beauty. He was perfection except for a delicate network of scars, like a dusting of cobwebs, on his pale skin. His scars were no where near as marring as mine; nor were they as noticeable as Victor's.

His angular beauty was framed by a soft tumble of golden hair, which fell into his bright cold eyes cold. His eyes were those of a predator, a glint of cool danger and devoid of compassion as he pointed a gun at the victim. If I was correct, and the story was forming in my head now, he had led the cheating girl into the underpass with his charms and promises of wild public sex. Then, he'd pulled a gun and allowed his associate to sneak up behind her, and finish her off.

I knew exactly who the distraction was; I had after him all created him. My second creation; the one I mentally called Arthur. I could see now why leaving them to Moriarty had been so very wrong. In that brief moment when I had created Victor, my smallest creation had been all that mattered. Victor and I had to escape - even if it meant leaving them.

But in my absence, Moriarty had been left to do as he pleased. He'd brought them to life just as his creator had done, and he had damaged my creations as he himself was damaged. Moriarty had broken him, he had damaged my creation and he had no doubt done so to the others; he had probably turned them all into thieves and murderers, whether it was through manipulating the creations' naive fear or appealing to the cold-blooded souless murderer inside that I could see here. They were truly his children. But they weren't! They were mine. I'd tried to forget that, to displace the feelings of guilt, but I couldn't hide from them anymore.

I couldn't hide away now. I needed to get my other creations away from Moriarty; I needed to keep them safe and I needed to stop this mad world which Moriarty intended to create. But first of all, I needed to track down Arthur and I needed to rescue him, just as I had his smallest brother.

I didn't even notice the car pulling up behind me until I heard footsteps approaching.


	62. 2013 - An offer of assistance

**2013 - An offer of assistance**

**Sherlock POV**

There was the clicking of low, sensible but undeniably feminine heels behind me. A light gait in a practical shoe; I could easily guess who was stood behind me,

"What brings you here, Donovan?" She sighed, clearly fighting the temptation to make a comment on me knowing who was behind me without looking, but decided to just answer my question instead,

"You running off like that." I suspected as much, but that wasn't what interested me. I could tell from the fact she wasn't rushing, wasn't out of breath, and wasn't even panicking that she'd known I was coming here - it didn't worry her. Clearly she knew I just needed to clear my head. It was a strange feeling to know that Donovan actually knew my moods. But then, we had known each for a long time, and she had always been a close observer. She was brighter than many of the police officers, and ambitious, but she was stupid enough to associate with Anderson, which outweighed everything else,

"And how did you know where to find me?" She chuckled, taking a seat next to me,

"You used to come here a lot. I don't think you realise it but before you... died, you would come here at least once a week; even if it was to just walk past, or to stand for only a minute, you came here. I used to see you on my way home from Scotland Yard."

"I'm almost flattered you paid so much attention to my everyday life, but I'm not entirely sure why-" She let out a laugh, a much happier and more pleasant noise that I had never heard from her. It was the laugh of two friends sharing coffee and a joke. It wasn't the derisive snort or sarcastic chuckle I usually heard from her. I turned my head for the first time, and looked at her. She was smiling slightly as she stared out over the water. She didn't have that same connection to the area that I did, and she didn't see what I did when I looked at the river. This was where I had lived in the Freak Show, the gazebo had only been a few minutes' walk away from me.

It hadn't changed much since then, except for the demolition of the gazebo. The area still looked like it was from my time: the walls were built from the old crumbling bricks, the air was clear and unpolluted, and the grass was still stretching out beneath me and the derelict Victorian houses long ago abandoned. It hadn't changed and, even though I hated the reason I first found it, it was a little haven where I could retreat back to another time and another age.

The hustle and bustle of modern day London was not as I remembered. There were still the markets, and the pick-pockets I remembered, there was still prostitutes lurking in alleyways with thieves, but everything had changed. Now the markets weren't the sole source of commercial goods, the pickpockets stole expensive leather wallets rather than pocket watches, the thieves mugged people for iPods and credit cards, whilst all the while the cars blared all around me and people wondered past with their new clothing styles and attitudes. But here, here I could sit in my own time zone and feel like I was home.

I was brought back to the present when Sally chuckled again,

"The great Consulting Detective is unsure?" I couldn't help but notice that it was said with only light teasing, free of any hint of cruelty and mocking that I remembered. Again, it was almost the tone of a friend,

"It's not a familiar feeling to me, I will remind you."

"I know that."

"I'm not going to give you back the phone."

"I had no intentions of asking for it."

"Then why are you here Sergeant Donovan?"

"I'll only say this once so you better pay close attention. I care about you Sherlock- I was... wrong to treat you the way I did."

"You were exactly right Donovan, even I can admit that. You thought me a psychopath, you thought I was soul-less, and you were correct. You said that I would be the one putting a body at the crime scene one day... you were - once again - correct. In fact you were more than correct, I put more than one there: the old man and his family, William, Elizabeth... my father. Do not apologise for misunderstanding me Donovan because out of everyone, you understood me best."

"I understood you but I misjudged you too. Yes, you killed those people, and I judged you at the start. I hated you when I first found out about it- but then I realised that all of them killed you inside just a little bit too. I found out more and I realised they all had their own hand to play in their own deaths, they mistreated you as well. Sherlock, what you did was wrong... but it was a different time and a different you. I realise that now, I know why you're this way and I realise that I was wrong, to treat you that way.

"If I had scars like yours, and if I grew up the way you did, do you honestly think I'd be this person? I had a good life, I grew up happily with parents who loved me and I now I'm a respectable police officer, but that doesn't make me a nice person. You are braver and kinder deep down than I could ever be... I'm not kind, not really. I'm jealous and petty; I haven't fought wars, I'm not a genius and I'm don't have your history. I'm jealous of you for everything that you are, even scarred, because even when you're scarred you're so much more than any of us, a better person... a better man, and certainly more human. I realised all of this when I saw you looking after your son, when I saw just how much kinder you are than I realised. I was as wrong about you as I was right, if that makes any sense."

"It does. Thank you."

"Anytime. Now, what's this about a phone?"

"I wouldn't like to say."

"I saw how upset you were by it, and John did too. You may think I'm an idiot-"

"Merely for your association with Anderson."

"Oh, yes well I know he's an idiot now. I broke it off with him-"

"I see."

"You do?" I smiled at her fleetingly, and nodded as I said,

"Anderson insulted me after you had your epiphany about how you were wrong to hate me... and you told his wife about the affair? Well played." She smiled,

"I thought so; oh and whilst we're on the topic... the first time you and I met? Good punch, I'm glad you hit him, but I really wish you had put me in my place then. I wish I'd known about you back then, we could have been a good team. Because I'm not an idiot. Today, I saw the way you looked at that evidence - even if I didn't know it was a phone or what it meant – and I know it's something important."

"It is. It is extremely important; possibly the most important thing to happen in years."

"Then I want to help. I'm going to make it up to you, every crappy thing I did to you and everything I said-"

"It's not necessary, I gave as good as I got, is the expression I believe-"

"I provoked you, for little reason more than that I hated you from the second we met."

"You were right in your reasons to despise me-"

"And I was wrong to continue to hate you. I was right about your actions, about your facade, I was wrong about who you were. I will make it up to you, whether you like it or not. I'm going to help you, no matter what you ask, and I promise that I won't breathe a word of anything that you say now." I could hear the sincerity in her voice, and finally I relented,

"I mentioned at the press conference that there were others of my kind-"

"Were they the murderers?"

"Don't interrupt."

"Sorry."

"Those others include Moriarty himself - he was made by Victor's rival - and as a fellow creature he was determined to have more of our kind. I believe his motivation was world domination, as per usual, and I suspect a small measure of loneliness. I am the only one who can make more, having spent my near two centuries of life studying my own creation. He forced me to create six adults and one child from body parts he had collected-"

She shuddered and I gave her a sharp look, "I am proud of my accomplishments, just like my father was, but unlike him I am not repulsed. I am sorry those people died, you cannot imagine my horror when I realised people... and children had been killed for their delivery to me, but I had no choice in the matter. They threatened John."

"I know, I understand."

"I created them to keep my loved ones safe, but it was only the last and youngest that I truly brought to life. I animated him with the same method that Victor used to bring me to life, but with mine and John's love and attention he has flourished into any normal human infant. The others however... they are without conscience or love and beyond help, unless I can get them back and save them. I do believe that can save them, but I need to find them. For that, I need as much help as I can get without alerting the public to their identities; I can't have anyone catch them or know of their existence. It's a lot to ask but-"

"I'll help. Whatever you need; I'll help."

"Thank you. I fear I misjudged you Sally Donovan." She accepted the hand proffered without argument,

"And I you, Sherlock."


	63. 2013 - Taking them back

**2013 - Taking them back**

**Sherlock POV**

My phone beeped loudly, blaring out for my attention, and waking me midway through REM sleep. I huffed as I rolled over, annoyed by my dream being rudely interrupted. In the dream, I had been solving a fascinating case and I was just getting to the solution when I woke. I reached across and answered the phone. There were no pleasantries; Lestrade simply stated,

"There's been a murder." I sighed, rolled back over and tucked myself tighter against John's chest. Trying to lull myself back into the sleep, I mumbled down the phone, my voice hoarse from lack of sleep,

"When hasn't there? I'm sleeping Lestrade, you know how rare that is for me, so I will only come out for an eight or more-"

"It's a ten, Sherlock." I stopped mid-yawn and pulled the phone away from my face to stare at it. Was I truly going to experience the mythical creature that was a ten? Surely Lestrade must have been mistaken; it would turn out to be a horse with a horn tied to its head, rather than a unicorn,

"What made it a ten?"

"This murder follows a very particular pattern, which you asked me to keep an eye on, after the case in the underpass, even though you wouldn't explain why. It's in the docklands, the same spot on the head was struck and the victim's friend said that she was lured away from the group by an attractive blonde male, in his early thirties-" I was bolt upright now, knowing exactly what he was talking about, and I jumped up to get dressed. I could hear him talking to me, through the tangle of sheets that got caught around me in my haste to get out of bed.

"Is that right, Sherlock?"

"Definitely a ten, Lestrade."

"So it's the same murderer, what's so fascinating about that?"

Putting the phone back to my ear, I said quickly,

"I'll explain when I get there," he tried to protest but I'd already hung up before he could say another word. I started to pull on my shirt, doing up my trousers with one hand and shaking John awake with the other. He grumbled something along the lines of "not now, sleeping," before rolling over and beginning to snore again. This cycle of groaning and rolling over continued for another minute, with John just flipping over and over again in the bed, until I sharply pushed him off of the mattress. There was a loud crash when he hit the ground, followed by a muffled shout of, "what the Hell, Sherlock?" I smiled at him brightly,

"Morning, sleepy-head." He looked round through one screwed up eye, glaring at the darkness around the curtains and then snapping at me,

"No, it's bloody not! It's only just past one!"

"We have a case." He scrunched up his face, reached up and pulled the blanket our of my hands, blinking slightly when he realised I was naked under the blanket, before rolling over. Apparently the urge to sleep was more important then anything else; he rested his head on his arm - to cushion it on the hard ground - and attempted to go back to sleep, ignoring the fact he was on the floor,

"We always have a bloody case, go to sleep and we'll deal with it in the morning."

"It happened by the abandoned Millennium Mills." His entire body tensed and then he heaved a sigh, pushing himself to his feet and muttering,

"Fine, put some clothes on and we'll go."

"We may need to make a few changes to our usual attire." I crossed to back to the wardrobe, where my disguises were kept in the bottom drawer inside, and held out two pieces of clothes,

"You can't be serious."

"Perfectly, John."

* * *

**John POV**

From my seat in the minivan, I could clearly hear Lestrade bellowing,

"Don't ever do that again! You're absolute dick, Sherlock, you know that right?!" Sherlock was grinning innocently as Lestrade shouted at him, and I couldn't help laughing despite myself at the deathly pale look on Greg's face, and the way he was clutching his chest,

"Why? What shouldn't I do?"

"You can't just drive up behind people in a van, jump out with John's gun and a balaclava on, and shout at me to get in! I thought I was about to be abducted and shot in the face-"

"Oh don't be melodramatic Lestrade, and I know you would have dealt with us admirably if that had been the case." Lestrade let out a short irritated growl, then climbed into the middle seat in the van and asked Sherlock, his tone still extremely annoyed

"Where's Victor?"

"We didn't think it appropriate to bring him with us on a kidnapping mission, so he's with Mrs Hudson." Lestrade rolled his eyes,

"Ha ha, yes you're kidnapping me with your balaclavas and gun, very funny. You can drop it now."

"No, we're genuinely on a kidnapping mission." He stared at Sherlock from where he was sandwiched between us, who had his eyes fixed on the road – I would have driven but my shoulder makes it difficult to operate the gears – and when he received no response he hissed,

"Right, start from the beginning."

"Earlier this evening there was a murder, yes?"

"Yes, and you didn't show up to look at the crime scene, which was apparently the most fascinating thing in the world to you just a few hours ago."

"Because John and I didn't want the murderer to know we were involved in the case. We wanted him thinking that we're far away on the other side of London, tucked up in bed."

"Which I rather wish I was," I said quietly, and was ignored by both of them,

"You have had eleven other murder cases in this area in the past two months, since I returned to the world of the living - including the student last week - am I right?" He nodded, "this area is a ten minute walk from the building I was held captive. The buildings inside the half mile radius of that building all belong to a certain James Moriarty. He's teaching my creations to be murderers in his own personal hunting ground, and allowing them to run riot in the streets and kill as they seem fit. He wants them to believe that they are free range, and can do as they please, but he also wants them to be in an area where they can be watched and brought back by his men if needed. For example when a murder is noticed and they have to be hidden quickly to prevent capture, which is how you have yet to catch any of them."

"Why don't they leave?"

"Well for one, where would they go? It's cold and miserable, they stay close to the building where they know they'll be provided food and water, and they don't even know what's beyond their perimeter. In addition, this is a very sparsely populated area, and that gives them a sense of security. They aren't used to people, so they would find large groups intimidating. The early murders were different to the last two because they were still startled, and the humans kept walking into their territory. They kill in self-defence because they're young and easily startled, and they don't want people getting close to their base. But Moriarty's teaching them, the last few murders were planned and well executed, they're learning how to be trained killers already."

"So what are we going now?"

"We're going after tonight's killer and we're taking him home, no matter what. He won't be far; he's still slow and clumsy because he's only began to walk very recently. When I was still young, it took months for me to have fully develop my motor skills, and years for my fine motor skills. Besides, he'll tire easily and he'll have been frightened off by the sounds of sirens. The wind is coming from the North so he would have chosen to walk with it - rather than against it. It's been driving him away from home, so he'll be somewhere in this direction, and tiring after this sort of distan-"

"There!" Sherlock and Lestrade both snapped their heads in the direction that I was pointing at a figure huddled under a tiny stairwell. He was wrapped in a thin jacket and barely visible except for a tuft of blonde curls sticking out from under his hood, "why aren't you stopping?"

"I don't want to startle him by just slamming my breaks on." Lestrade shot him an incredulous look,

"And running at him with a gun and balaclava won't startle him?"

"We're going to take these off; we needed to go unrecognised by Moriarty's goons, or they would have panicked and bundled him back into the base before I could get to him. They're under orders not to interfere, with his learning to fend for himself, unless absolutely necessary." He slowed the car gradually, pulling it over at the side of the road and climbing out quietly, "wait for us here, Lestrade. John follow me, but don't come too close, we don't want to scare him away." Lestrade was about to protest, but I stopped him; I climbed out and shut the door gently behind me. Just that tiny sound drew the attention of the hooded figure, which whined like a stray dog,

"Sherlock, are you sure this is a good idea? He's got a gun." Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but another voice responded. It was slurred and uncertain, and the slow halting voice of someone who had only just learnt to talk. The women he lured in the underpass must have thought he was drunk, and therefore taken the extremely good looking guy up on his offer of sex,

"Sherlock? You are Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded, moving slowly towards his creature, who looked at him blankly,

"Yes, you understand? I'm Sherlock. I made you, I'm your creator-" The creature backed away and I saw a glimpse of fear on a barely visible and stunningly handsome face, which was followed by an equally quick flash of hurt on Sherlock's, "you don't recognise me? You know my name, but you don't remember me."

"Did you expect him to?" Sherlock shook his head sadly,

"No, of course not. I hoped though. I hoped that, even though they weren't truly alive when I created them, they recognised me and see me for who I am, but he doesn't know me." The man was shivering now, "please, Arthur, you have to recognise me." I blinked in surprise,

"You named them?"

"Of course I named them, John, they're my family! Arthur, you have to trust me, please!"

"Why?" The blonde haired man looked up to the sky as rain began to fall, and he shook more violently in the cold; Sherlock immediately removed his coat. Arthur held it for a minute, and ran his fingers over the expensive fabric thoughtfully. Sherlock had once told me that Lestrade had been the one to give him that coat - when he was homeless and living rough - and I couldn't help but draw the parallels between that act as a future father figure, and this one right in front of me,

"Put it on, it's much thicker than your coat, it'll keep you warm. I cannot believe Moriarty didn't dress you properly when he threw you out into the street-"

"Don't need warmth."

"But you want it; I know how it feels. You're cold and uncomfortable, I've felt like that, you deserve a bit of comfort and Moriarty-" The blonde's head whipped up, and he cried out,

"Jim, I want Jim!" Sherlock's hurt returned, and he said quietly,

"I am your creator-"

"No, Jim!"

"He doesn't care about you!"

"You don't care!"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't care; I care for all of my creations-"

"You left me!" Sherlock froze, the guilt plain on his face,

"He told you?"

"Yes, he told me. He told us all. You left us, but Jim cares."

"James Moriarty doesn't know how to care. He's not like us. Come with me and I'll look after you; we'll help you and we'll find you a home - where you will be loved, and happy. You can have more than this life, because you're better than him. I promise."

"He told us about Sherlock, you're a traitor. You became human. I don't want to be human!" He threw the coat to the ground, "I'm not human, I'm like Jim, I'm better than you, better than all of you! You're a traitor to our kind. He says you are inferior because you feel love and pain; I don't need a coat because I'm better than that, I'm not human! I hate humans!"

I jumped back as his shivering hand reached into the thin jacket and pulled out his a gun. It pointed at Sherlock's chest, and for a second my heart froze at the thought of losing Sherlock again, but then the gun was aimed at my chest, "Jim says we will own the world, and rule the humans." He finger squeezed but before he could shoot, Sherlock had leapt across and hit him. The force knocked him over and his head smashed nto the brick wall behind him.

He didn't get back up; Sherlock hastily wrapped his coat around him, and picked him up with difficulty - due to the fact Arthur was about two inches taller, and quite a bit more muscular. Straining under his weight, Sherlock dragged him towards the van, and said,

"Open the van doors, John, we need to get him home."


	64. 2013 - Brothers

**2013 - Brothers**

**John POV**

Sherlock's out of control driving meant that it only took us about ten minutes to get back to 221B. I was attempting to treat Arthur's head-wound in the back of the van, despite being thrown around by the bumps, and Lestrade kept checking over his shoulder; he looked worried for the other man... Arthur, I reminded myself. I wondered what the others were called; Sherlock must have named them all.

We pulled up on the curb - we didn't care that it was a no parking area, we'd deal with any fines happily - because we just needed to get inside as quickly as possible. Lestrade put his hands under Arthur's armpits, and I lifted his legs, as Sherlock opened the front door to allow us to shuffle awkwardly through the door, and over to the stairs. We didn't get that far, however, because a tiny voice called out,

"Daddy? What's going on?" Victorwas stood in the doorway of Mrs Hudson's flat. He was apparently as light of a sleeper as Sherlock, and had been roused by the sound of our cursing. In our defence, we were trying to manoeuvre a six foot two, fairly muscled, man through the front door, and up stairs. Sherlock hissed slightly, surprised by the appearance of our son, and leapt in front of the little boy to block Arthur from view - not wanting our son to be exposed to what we were doing.

He pointed at the door, and said quickly,

"Go inside, Victor-" Victor shook his head, and tried to dodge around his father,

"No, I want to know what dad's doing!"

"He's bringing someone inside because he's injured."

"What happened?" Sherlock looked at me for help, but I just shrugged. Finally, Sherlock sighed, and said quietly,

"Fine, Victor, I'm going to tell you the truth, and I'm going to be blunt. He's like us." Victor's eyes lit up,

"Another one of your creations?" Sherlock nodded. He was apparently surprised by how happy our son was upon finding out that there were more of them, and that one of them had come home,

"Is he my brother?" Sherlock blinked in surprise as I puffed through carrying Arthur upstairs, and called over my shoulder,

"I suppose you could think of it that way. Couldn't he, Sherlock?"

"Don't encourage him-" Victor dodged through Sherlock's legs, when he was distracted,

"Why not?" He asked, grinning up at Sherlock, "Dad's right; he is my brother because we're the same, and you made him, so you're his father too, aren't you? Because you made him."

"Yes, I did."

"Then he's my brother. What's his name?" Sherlock sighed, looking exasperated as he cautioned,

"Victor-"

"No, that's my name!" Sherlock was looking upset now, and I stopped. Lestrade was looking at me, with the same confusion in his eyes, because we had clearly missed something that was blindingly obvious to Sherlock, and of deadly importance,

"-stop it. You can't get your hopes up, Victor, because we have to... _I_ have to do something to make Arthur better, but it may go wrong. I don't want you to get upset if it doesn't work, and Arthur doesn't take to it well-" Oh God, that was what Sherlock was worried about. He didn't want Victor to get attached to a man that might be about to die. Victor still didn't realise, and just smiled up at Sherlock,

"I have a brother called Arthur?"

Sherlock ran a hand over his face, glancing up to where we were just getting onto the landing,

"Go to bed please, Victor. When you wake up in the morning I'll talk to you about this in more detail, okay?" Victor shrugged and, after stealing a brief hug from Sherlock, he dashed up past us on his way to his bedroom. He stopped beside Arthur, quirking his head in confusion,

"He doesn't have scars-"

"No, he doesn't. He's a little bit different, but he's still one of our kind." Victor nodded, dark curls bouncing, before he jumping over Arthur and running up the next flight of stairs. He spared us one last look and disappeared into my old bedroom, which we had given to him now that Sherlock and I shared a bedroom.

* * *

**AN. Just a little one I'm afraid, I'm still working on the next chapter**


	65. 2013 - Euthanasia

**2013 - Euthanasia**

**John POV**

The dawn, a few hours later, found Arthur tied down to a chair in the middle of the living room. Sherlock assured me that it was just a precaution, in case he tried to attack me - for being a human - or either him, for being a traitor to their kind. I had finished treating the wound on the back of Arthur's head without having to be asked, even though Sherlock probably could have done it just as well - he had, after all, been a doctor after the First World War. Sherlock asked me to do it, however, whilst he sat a few feet away in his armchair. He had his hands pressed together in front of his face, in the illusion of prayer, and his eyes were flickering behind his lids as he searched through his mind palace for the answer to the conundrum.

I didn't ask what he was planning to do to Arthur; I didn't really want know. The only times he stirred was when Arthur briefly woke. Sherlock would get up, cross the room, and administer a small dose of morphine, and then promptly return to his mind palace. I didn't really think it was a good idea to let Sherlock - who used to be addicted to cocaine - give doses of morphine, but he seemed to have managed to keep the store for years without relapsing into drug use. It was an hour after sunrise when Sherlock came out of his mind palace for longer than was needed to administer the morphine. He immediately disappeared into our bedroom; after checking Arthur wasn't going to wake up in my absense, I followed and found him rooting around in the back of the wardrobe,

"What are you up to?" He started to pull all of my clothes out, and throw them across the floor behind him, "Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" It was only a couple of minutes before his suits joined the pile, and his fingers ran along the back of the wardrobe. To my shock, his fingertips sank slightly into the wood and he manage to prise the entire back of the cupboard away. He didn't respond to my questioning, or my comments on how I didn't know the cupboard did that. He just reached down to the bottom of the wardrobe, picked up a small pack and walked back into the living room. I recognised it, but I couldn't quite be sure how, "Sherlock, is that a defibrillator?"

Finally, he looked up and said quietly,

"Go upstairs and sleep in Victor's room."

"I'm not going anywhere-"

"John, for one I cannot have anyone know the secret of how this is done-" I went to protest my loyalty, and that I would never do such a thing as tell his secrets, but he held his hand up. "If Moriarty caught wind, that you have this knowledge, he would capture and torture you. You might never give up the secret but I would hate myself for being the one to put you through that, or you might reveal the secret - which I would not blame you for - and the knowledge would be disastrous in the wrong hands. Please, do this for me."

"Fine. What are you going to do?"

"I've already started doing it." I frowned in confusion and then turned to Arthur. He had been a few minutes from beginning to regain consciousness the last time I had checked on him. To my surprise, he wasn't even close now; he seemed to have completely slumped, and his pale skin was almost grey. My heart leapt into my throat, "Oh my God, Sherlock, what have you done?"

I rushed across the room, and pressed my fingertips to Arthur's throat. I panicked as I realised that I couldn't feel the gentle nudge of a pulse beneath them; I felt tears well up as I realised exactly what Sherlock had done, "You killed him! You utter bastard. Is that why you brought him back here? Has that been your plan all along? To euthanise them all? They're too far gone, so let's just sweep them under a rug, and focus on Victor-"

"John-"

"No, shut up and listen to me. It's inhumane Sherlock, and this is one thing that I cannot support you in; you've murdered him! I thought you said that you had changed, but you haven't really. How can you be so calm when you've just killed a man-?" He crossed the room and placed a finger on my lips. I wanted to push him away, or bite the offending digit, but he cut across me,

"Let me finish. I didn't tell you, but that morphine is about ten times stronger than it says on the bottle-"

"So those doses you gave him, that I _let_ you give him because I thought that it was keeping him unconscious and out of pain, were actually killing him?"

"Yes, they killed him. He is already dead; you can't bring him back now-" I opened my mouth, but he cut across me again, "Don't start again! What I'm doing is for the best-"

"How is this for the best Sherlock? You've killed someone, and this time it's in cold blood. You knew what you were doing this time, too. If it had been Victor you left behind in the lab, who was the one tied to the chair now, would you have killed him?"

"John!" He looked like he wanted to hit me,

"Well would you? Would you murder him too-"

"Don't you dare say that, and don't be stupid. This isn't murder-"

"Oh no, it's actually euthanasia. I'm so sorry-" I spat at him. This time he did actually grab my shirt, gripping it by the collar and hissing,

"Will you shut up and listen! I only did this because I knew I could bring him back-"

"What?"

"If you would shut up for more than ten seconds then I would be able to tell you that the reason I killed him - as quickly and painlessly as possible, I might add - is so I can bring him back. You've heard of rebooting a computer, haven't you?" I nodded, "well I'm rebooting his brain. Killing him returns him to factory settings, it wipes the hard-drive."

"But how does that help-"

"I'm _getting_ to it!" He held up the pack,

"The defibrillator?"

"No, it's not a defribrillator. It's the same machine that I built to bring Victor to life. I killed Arthur, and wiped his memories, because I knew I could use this to bring him back. But this time, he'll be brought to life in the correct way. This will change him, and it will make him better by erasing the damage Moriarty did. I wanted to give him the chance to grow and learn and love, isn't it better this way?" I just stared at him for a minute, completely shocked, and then nodded,

"I'm sor-"

"Save it, John. Now I can see how you really feel about my past, having seen you panic like that-"

"I didn't mean it, Sherlock, and you know it. You're not a murder; I was just upset. Can you forgive me?"

"Maybe. Just go upstairs, I'll call you when I'm done."

"Are you sure it'll work?" He looked down up at me, from where he had knelt to attach the electrodes to Arthur, and the worry in his eyes was like a cold stab to my gut,

"No. But it's our only option."

"Here's hoping, then."

With that I left him, and closed the door behind me.


	66. 2013 - Calling in a favour

**2013 - Calling in a favour**

**Sherlock POV**

True to his word, Sherlock called me back down two hours later. He looked exhausted and his eyes were being weighed down by massive bags; he was wiping the sweat away from his frizz of curls, with an arm exposed by rolled up sleeves, but he was smiling,

"I did it, John. I saved him."

"Thank God."

"Now get me Sally Donovan."

"Why?"

"I'm calling in a favour."

When she arrived not much later, to find us sat in the living room. Arthur was lying between us on the sofa and snoring gently - his head on Sherlock's leg, and his feet in my lap - with a blanket thrown over him. He had been bandaged and cared for wherever necessary, and I'd made sure to get him to wake for long enough to drink some water and eat a sandwich. His eyes never opened, and within seconds he fell back into almost comatose sleep. She looked at the sleeping man on the sofa and then back to Sherlock, crossing her arms and tapping her foot,

"And what is all this about? I get five phone calls at six in the morning from your boyfriend over here, telling me that it's urgent, and I get here only to find you two lovebirds mollycoddling a full grown man. Are you forming a threesome or something because I may be more accepting now, but polygomy's still a bit out of my comfort zone-" She blinked in surprise when both Sherlock and I recoiled from the idea,

"No, definitely not; that would be like me trying to forge a relationship with Victor. No, I'm calling in your offer of assistance from the other day; you said you would help me with regards to my murderous creation, and here he is." She blinked in surprise,

"Oh-" She peered at him more closesly, "well that's unexpected. But I still don't see why I'm here. You've already found him."

"Yes, since I didn't need your help tracking him down, I have chosen another task for you; he needs looking after, watching and teaching-"

"And why can't you do it?"

"We have Victor to look after, and five other creations to track down and help. I'll try and call in some other favours, it will only be a temporary arrangement if you want it to be, but you said you would help." She sighed, and her head dropped into her hand,

"I did say that, didn't I? Why couldn't this have waited until later? I'm supposed to be in work."

"Judging by my reaction to the first person I saw - my father - and that similar reaction in Victor, when I was the first person he saw, creatures of my kind seem to imprint instinctively. We recognise that we are vulnerable and empty of any knowledge, without a biological parent to protect us, so we imprint like a baby goose on the closest substitute - to replace the lack of relationships held in our blank brains. If you are to look after Arthur, I want him to form his primary attachment to you."

"And if I refuse?"

"I suppose I could find someone else but he would always come back to me, just as I always went back to Victor and sought his approval. I'm trying to ask nicely Sally; you said you would help and I need your help now, please?" She didn't look like she was going to relent, but then she let out a huge sigh,

"Fine, what do you want me to do with the baby goose?"


	67. 2013 - Teaching Arthur

**2013 - Teaching Arthur**

**John POV**

I think Sherlock is going to be sad to see Arthur go; he seems to actually care quite deeply for all his creations. It's quite amazing really. People accuse him of being robotic, of not caring, and he still thinks of himself as the heartless monster, and yet… here he was surrounded by those he loves, and who love him back. He had always thought himself so unlovable because of Victor's rejection, he had never felt worthy of love or friendship and he had never been able to keep hold of it.

But here he was 195 years on: me, Victor, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Arthur, Sally and the five other, so far unknown, creations, and he loves all of them. Not only that but we love him too; well maybe not Sally, but she certainly likes him. He was a different man now, and a better one. He might have his old scars back, but his life could not be any more different from the world he once lived in.

Arthur had taken to Sally just as Sherlock had predicted. His eyes had fluttered open, and fallen on the kind face just a few inches away from him – it was still weird seeing Sally look so warm, and friendly. He couldn't say anything, and he kept trying to reach out and consistently failed, but finally he had managed to reach out to stroke one of the curls,

"Hello, Arthur," she said quietly, so as to not terrify him. Instantly, his face split into a huge grin, but he didn't say anything, "my name's Sally." Again, he didn't say anything, "I'm going to look after you." He just kept smiling, and she looked up at Sherlock, "Why isn't he responding? I thought you said he would start trying to talk."

Sherlock was looking equally surprised by the mute,

"I'm not sure; keep talking to him." She frowned, but did as was instructed,

"Arthur; this is Sherlock, he was the one who made you, do you know Sherlock?" The blonde looked up, and stared at Sherlock intently for a minute, but there was no hint of recognition, and he quickly lost interest in Sherlock. He turned back to look at Sally, "Sherlock, what do I do?" There was no response, and we glanced round to see that Sherlock had disappeared.

Sally looked to me for help, but I just shrugged, "so… um… Arthur, are you alright? Would you like anything to eat, or drink?" Sherlock reappeared, and a packet of biscuits dropped into Sally's lap. She frowned up at him in confusion, and he sighed,

"I always found that food was a valuable bargaining tool to persuade Victor to learn, and it still is."

"Wait, is that why you always have a plate of biscuits next to you when you're reading to Victor?"

"Yes, of course it is. We've been reading Paradise Lost, and I wanted him to learn from it; offering food means he engages in trying to remember things. Why else would I have biscuits?"

"Normal fathers occasionally give their children biscuits for a treat—"

"Ugh, dull." Sally opened the packet of biscuits, and held one out for Arthur,

"I thought they were for bargaining," I asked Sherlock. He was watching Sally, and actually looked quite impressed,

"Yes, but he doesn't know what they are yet. By giving him one, he learns what it is," he pointed to where Sally was teaching Arthur to take hold of the biscuit, and helping him put it to his mouth and bite down. As soon as the taste hit his tongue, his eyes lit up, "and now he knows what it is, and what it tastes like, he'll want more and do as she asks to get it."

She pointed to herself,

"Sally," she said simply. He grinned at her, looking like an overexcited puppy, and she repeated herself, "Sally. Say it, Sally."

"Sal-?" She nodded encouragingly, "Sal- Sal- Sally?"

"Well done, Arthur," she handed him a biscuit, and he bit into it with a grin, "do you think he'll learn any more today?" Sherlock shook his head,

"I think not; he's slightly slow on the uptake. Just keep talking to him, and introducing him to words, and he should be alright. Do you have your car with you?" She nodded, "You should introduce him to his new home as quickly as possible, and let him get settled in."

"It's like we're talking about bringing a new puppy home from the pet shop – not a person."

"Well, he has about the same level of intelligence as one at the moment. John, help Sally take him down to the car." I nodded, going over to take Arthur's arm, and helping her lift him onto his feet. We had to put both of his arms around our shoulders, and basically drag him between us. He didn't even try to walk; he just kept grinning.

When I had seen them off in the car; I returned to Sherlock – who was sat on the sofa in our flat.

"So what do you think?" I asked. He looked up at me,

"He's damaged."

"What?"

"Two bouts of high electricity are bound to have slightly muddled his brain – the first process of which used a faulty technique. He's lost valuable brain cells. He's never going to reach what would have been his full potential of an IQ to rival mine, or Moriarty's."

"Well, that's no too bad. I mean no-one particularly rivals the two of you, except perhaps Mycroft, and maybe Victor in a few years. What'll happen to him? Will he—is he brain damaged, permanently?" Sherlock shook his head,

"It will take him a fair few years to be up to a level that would be deemed typical for an adult male, but he will learn if he is taught well. It will just be a very slow process, and hopefully Sally can be patient."

"She put up with you on her crime scenes," I said, teasingly. He gave me a look, but then smiled,

"They should do well together."

"Yeah, I hope so. But one thing's for certain."

"What's that?" he asked. I grinned at him,

"Victor's going to kill you for giving away his brother."

"You're right… I'll just have to make sure they meet properly soon." There was the sound of footsteps running down the stairs,

"Very soon, I will imagine."


	68. 2013 - The curious case of stolen dinner

**2013 - The curious case of stolen dinners**

**Sherlock POV**

John couldn't understand why I had agreed to take my most recent case. We had just finished interviewing an old woman, and I hadn't told him where we were going next. He following me, struggling slightly to keep up, and was puffing loudly in the cold of the early morning,

"Food being stolen from shopping bags and through windows is hardly a case, Sherlock, it's probably just animals-"

"Animals that can open doors?" He sighed, wrapping his coat tighter around himself as he followed me towards the last house where food had been taken,

"Fine, maybe it was taken by some homeless people-"

"These homeless people were seen, John, by three of the people who had food stolen from them. The thieves were described as two stunningly beautiful people with pale skin; a blonde woman and a dark haired man, both looked extremely healthy, but were unable to speak when briefly caught a few weeks ago. It hardly fits the description of two typical homeless people."

"Okay fine, I admit that - when you tell me that – it does sound like them, but why would they be out here? This is the other side of London from where Arthur was found, where Moriarty has his base, shouldn't he be keeping a tighter leash on them? Why isn't he looking after them and actually, whilst we're on that topic, why are they looking for food? They're like what you, Victor and Arthur were like - before you all changed - they don't need food, but by the looks of it they're stealing food quite regularly, as much as a normal human would need it."

"We'll just have to find out, won't we?"

Somewhere to my right, there was a rustle and a whimper and I threw my hand out, stopping John in his tracks,

"What is it? What've you seen, Sherlock?"

"Nothing, but I heard someth- there!" I edged closer to the pile of boxes and, as slowly as possible, removed them one by one. It could have just been foxes or a stray cat, but it was worth checking it out... yes, it was definitely worth checking out. As I lifted the boxes away I uncovered two cowering figures, wrapped around each other for warmth and protection. They looked up at us with huge pale eyes and instantly I knew why they were alone, "I know why they're not with Moriarty." I knelt down to their level, looking at their entwined hands as John followed my lead, asking softly,

"Why? What happened?"

"They fell in love." John's eyes widened, looking down at their hands,

"How? I thought it wasn't possible-"

"Apparently, I underestimated Moriarty's technique; it might not have been enough to give them souls straight off the bat but they managed to find them anyway. Together by the looks of it. They fell in love and became mortal, so when they ran away together, Moriarty deemed them to be inferior and not worth the bother."

"So they won't need the same treatment as Arthur?"

"No, I think not. They're as happy and loved as they'll ever be." They were huddling together like frightened children, and pressing so close that they looked like they would join permanently at the hips and cheek at any second. When I turned back to them I just held my hands up, palms exposed, to show that I was no threat, "I won't hurt you. I'm Sherlock-"

"Sherlock? We know, Sherlock," the woman slurred, looking to her partner for confirmation; he nodded his head vigorously, and a smile grew on his pale blue lips,

"He help! Jim say he is like us. Sherlock make us! Sherlock, you help?"

"Yes, I have food and a warm bed. Come back home with us, and we'll help you-" John interrupted from his position at my shoulder,

"What are we going to do with them Sherlock? We can't keep them at 221B; there's not enough room for them, and they won't want to be separated-" Sensing, rather than understanding, what we were saying; they managed -as impossible as it seemed - to press even closer together, and cry out,

"No, together! We stay." I nodded, trying to communicate with as warm of an expression as I could manage,

"I understand; we won't separate you." I turned to my partner, "don't worry about it - it's already been sorted, John. Mycroft's paying rent to Mrs Hudson for them, and they're going to live together in 221C. Paying for them is the least he can do." The bitterness behind my sentence meant he couldn't help but ask,

"You still haven't gotten over him giving the story of your together to Moriarty and the newspapers."

"If he hadn't, then maybe I would still be normal – in the limited sense of normal that can apply to me – in the eyes of the public. They wouldn't know my past or my physiology, and my kind wouldn't be under threat. I will never forgive him for endangering my family." John reached out a hand, gently clasping my shoulder and squeezing,

"It's okay, Sherlock, I don't expect you to. We should get them home before they freeze. I'll call Donovan and ask her to bring some warm clothes for... what are their names?" I frowned. I had forgotten that I had not told told anyone the names of all of my creations. I turned back to their pair,

"What are your names?"

"I thought you named all of your creations?"

"Yes, but they've been together for some time. They might have chosen names for themselves."

"Emily," he said excitedly, as he nuzzled closer to the blonde with a huge smile on his face, and then pointed to himself to proudly announcing, "and I'm Ben!" John must have noticed the shock on my face because, as we helping them to their feet, and leading them towards the police car John called, he leant in and asked,

"What was that look for back there?"

"I think... I think they remember me."

"What?"

"I think they remember me from the time just after I made them. They were always vacant, glazed over and unresponsive; I hoped they would at least hear some of the words I was saying through the haze, before they were brought to life, but when Arthur didn't recognise me I decided that none of them would remember me from the time before they were alive"

"But they did?"

"It would appear so. I used to speak to them - about anything and everything. I remember telling each of them what they would be like, and about the the things I would teach them, or the places we'd travel to... and I told them their names."

"And you called them Ben and Emily?" I nodded,

"Benedict and Emmeline to be previse. Emily and Ben; it gives me hope that maybe as they get older their minds will develop, and they'll remember more of me."

The two young creations were being wrapped in blankets by the officers who had come in the car. The officer put them in the back seat, and I gestured to him that we needed a minute, and we would get in once we were finished talking.

"Do you remember anything about Victor from before you were brought you to life?"

"Vaguely. I remember it was like being in a womb; it felt safe, and warm. Then I remember the jolt and tearing through that fabric and waking up, and my thoughts becoming more complex as I was brought into consciousness."

"Do you remember Victor working on you?"

"My eyes were always closed, or if they were open I couldn't see. None of my senses were working except for my ears, and even that was muffled, but I remember a voice. It was too far away and quiet to remember exactly if it belonged to my father, but I remember it was more clinical than I was with my creations."

"Do you remember what he said?"

"No, and I do not think it was of any importance - except that it was scientific, and intelligent. I received an informal education on his scientific mind when he was working, and I must have absorbed that to result in my own genius. But he wasn't speaking to me, so much as talking aloud, because he didn't seem to imagine that I might have a mind." John looked at me sympathetically, and I sighed, "All he saw was the physical; he treated me as nothing more than a vessel for his genius, and that's how he treated me all through my life."

He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder again and I smiled gently, reaching up gently run my fingers over it for a second, before we turned and climbed into the car. I took the back seat beside my two creations, and John was in the front seat. He looked at the driver in surprise,

"I didn't know you were coming to pick them up, Sally." She smiled him, and looked over her shoulder at me in the rear view mirror,

"Anything to get out of the flat for ten minutes." John looked surprised,

"Is Arthur on his own then?" She gave him a sharp look,

"Yes, I left a helpless man - who once burnt every single one of his fingers by putting both hands into the toaster – on his own in a flat. A flat that has my gun, hundreds of sharp objects and old, dangerous electrical appliances." John frowned at the sarcastic response, and I saved him by responding,

"I believe that Sally has left him with her sister for the time being, and he's probably asleep so he's especially safe."

"Not even Arthur can hurt himself on a soft mattress - surrounded by cushions and a duvet. How did you know he was asleep?"

"If he'd been awake then I doubt he would have let you leave him behind."

"Good observation, and yeah that's true." John cleared his throat at her side, and she turned to look at him as he asked,

"I see Sherlock's imprinting theory is true then?"

"Is it ever! By the looks of those two-" They were intertwined again. Her head was resting on his shoulder and both sets of arms wrapped in a tight bundle around each other. Every instinct in them was clearly craving contact and closeness. It was a feeling I remembered from my own early days, but for me it was never satisfied because everyone kept their distance, and my father did not wish to be close to me. She looked at them in surprise, "I imagine they imprinted on each other?" I nodded,

"It seems likely. Perhaps Moriarty thought it would be interesting to wake them at the same time, so they would form a bond with each other. Possibly an experiment, but maybe an attempt to make them work better as a team. The plan clearly worked too well and backfired for him."

"Yes, well imagine their closeness but apply it to me and Arthur - and with me being slightly less responsive. Seriously, he follows me everywhere! Not only that but he asks questions constantly, he parrots everything I say and he never stops grinning! No offense Sherlock, but he's hardly the brightest bulb in the box - even for someone so young. He doesn't learn at the speed Victor does, and he doesn't learn from his mistakes. He burnt himself on my iron five times this week and has run a freezing cold bath for himself every day - even though I keep showing him how to use the hot water tap, and mix the water. Are you sure he's not defective?" I frowned at her slightly, disliking her tone of voice and her choice of words, but I remaind lenient to her because she was doing me a favour by helping him. She was clearly just frustrated,

"Quite certain Sally, and it's fairly normal. He does seem quite taken with you; when we came to check on your both the other day... he seemed much brighter, and more alive than the last time I saw him."

"The last time you saw him he had a large chunk of flesh removed from the back of his head, and had just been brought back to life after you overdosed him with morphine."

"It's more than that. He spoke about you constantly and was desperate for you to return, and he dotes on you-" She groaned, resting her head on the steering wheel in exasperation, as we waited at the traffic lights,

"You don't think-" John chuckled, shaking his head, as he said,

"I saw him yesterday at Scotland Yard, he's smitten." She let out another moan, "And as much as you are loathe to admit it, and you like to say he's an idiot, you're not exactly adverse to those feelings."

"I'm fond on him! He's an idiot, but he's an endearing one... he's like a best friend, but one that's incredibly slow. It certainly helps that he's also one of the most perfect looking men I have ever seen."

"Yes, quite a step up from Anderson - aesthetically and intellectually." She glared at me in the rear view mirror,

"Oh ha ha; stop picking on Anderson, he's not _that_ bad." John gave her a look,

"Yes, he really is. Even I'll admit that Sherlock's not wrong on that; did Lestrade ever tell you he hated Anderson for the first year they worked together? Lestrade's the most professional one out of all of us, and even he couldn't stand his colleague. Surely that tells you something."

"Fine. But even Anderson is smarter than Arthur."

"Barely," I said with a scoff. "Give him time and attention. It'll be a few months, and granted he won't be my most intelligent creation, but he'll catch up to a normal human adult eventually. Try taking him outside more, and exposing him to new situations; let him watch TV, read books and listen to the radio. If you expose him to the real world, he'll be enthralled and pick it up more quickly - that's how I became who I am. It wasn't from sitting in Victor's lab on my own, it was from being thrown out into the world to sink or float. He'll learn - I promise you."

"Fine, we're here. The clothes are in the boot." John smiled gratefully at her,

"Thank you Sally." He jumped out, and rushed round the other of the car to where Ben and Emily were huddling, and clucked over them like a mother hen, "Come on you two. Get out of the car." I slid out of the backseat behind them, and leant back in to say quickly,

"We'll be round to see Arthur soon, but I'm sure there is nothing to worry about. Have a good morning Sally."


	69. 2013 - Picnicking

**2013 - Picnicking**

**John POV**

On our next visit to Sally's flat, I became very aware of just what she meant. Arthur followed her _everywhere_, he even attempted to go into the toilet with her,

"For God sake, Arthur, stay! Do you see what I mean Sherlock? He's like a bloody puppy; he won't leave me alone!" Arthur pouted, looking like a ten year old little boy rather than a fully grown man - although saying that he probably had the mind-set of a ten year old. Sherlock frowned, nodding and saying thoughtfully,

"Yes, I do. Arthur, come over here." Sally sighed in relief at Arthur's distraction and went inside the look, locking the bathroom door behind her in case he came back. For a minute, Arthur didn't do as he had been told. Sherlock kept tapping the stool, and repeated his request, until finally Arthur bounded over and sat down, grinning up at his creator. Out of the depths of his pockets, Sherlock plucked an apple; we had found that it was Arthur's favourite food, and Sherlock always brought one for him when we visited. Arthur grinned, and held out his hand,

"Apple! Can I have it?" Sherlock tossed it to him and, though there was a slight scuffle, he managed to catch it clumsily,

"His motor skills are coming along nicely - about the level I would expect - so that's not my concern." He pulled out his phone from the other pocket, "Arthur?" The blonde man looked up from his apple, wiping the juice off his face, and saying through his full mouth,

"Ye-th?"

"What's this?" Arthur scrunched up his face, hard in thought and shaking his head,

"Umm... it's a... Sally told me what it is... oh! Telephone! It's a telephone!"

"Yes, and what's it for?" Arthur blinked and stared at it. This time he continued to stare for a good long minute, but had with no answer. He just kept looking at Sherlock in complete bemusement, who then asked, "You don't know what it's for?" He sat frozen - he didn't even shake his head. Finally, Sally came out of the bathroom and, within seconds, he had jumped to his feet and shot over to her.

She sighed, accepting the hug from the over excited man-child,

"Well? Do you know what's... I don't want to say _wrong_ with him, because that sounds terrible. Do you know why is he like this?" Sherlock sighed, picking up the abandoned apple core and throwing it in the bin. He gestured for me to talk, and say my observations,

"If he was under two years old-"

"He is," Sherlock interjected. I nodded,

"If we were to treat him as a two year old, we would say he has a cognitive delay, which happens sometimes. It's hard to tell because it's only a quick assessment, from what I can tell: he has difficulty following simple instructions, such as to sit on the stool, he doesn't use gestures like shaking his head and he can't recognise common objects."

"Well, will he... catch up?" Sherlock nodded from where he was washing the apple core off his hands,

"It's a tricky case because he's obviously much older physically, than most people with a cognitive delay, so we can't take him to a normal specialist. It's not my area of specialty, so I won't be much help, but I have an old colleague. I expect she will be retired now, since we worked together in 1962, but at the time she specialised in paediatrics, and helped children with delays. I'll organise for her to visit him, spend an hour a day with him, and he should catch up quite soon."

"Why do you think he's like this?" I shrugged, I honestly had no idea, but Sherlock – as per usual – had the answer,

"I imagine it's something to do with the way Moriarty brought him to life; he was probably the first to be born, so to speak, and the process wasn't as finely calibrated as when the later creations were brought to life. It probably caused some issues, similar to complications at a normal birth, with oxygen deprivation and the like. He's at the same mental stage that Ben and Emily were at when we first found them, whereas they have vastly improved in just the past week alone and he has remained this way for months. But he'll improve."

"Thank you Sherlock."

"I think it should be me thanking you, Sergeant Donovan."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"You took him in as a favour to me, and now you're finding it will be much more work than you initially thought. I'm grateful for you not abandoning him." When she responded her voice was surprisingly soft, and emotional,

"Do you really think I would do such a horrible thing? I know how you feel about Victor doing that to you, I know how much that still hurts you and... I know I say he's annoying, but he's not a burden. He loves me and I love him, he's my best friend, so _no_. I won't abandon him." There was nothing else that Sherlock could say to that. He just nodded, excusing himself to go outside. Sally looked at me questioningly,

"I think he just needs to think things over. Give me a minute, and we'll come back up."

"Okay. Come on Arthur, let's go make some tea-"

"Bleurgh, not tea! I like hot chocolate, and biscuit. Can I have?"

"Yeah, fine, if you help me make the tea first." I smiled at their interaction, and then followed Sherlock outside. He was stood outside the door, frowning at a spot across the road, and his fingers were twitching as if he longed to reach into his pocket and get out a cigarette, which we both know wouldn't be in there,

"That's a nice thing she's doing." Sherlock looked up from where he'd been deep in thought,

"Yes."

"I didn't think she had it in her."

"No, I didn't either."

"Sherlock?" He looked down at me, and I saw a surprising amount of emotion bubbling within tumultuous eyes. If I wasn't imagining them; jealousy and sadness were most obvious in his eyes, "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm glad she's going to look after him-"

"But, you're upset too." He went to object, but I cross across him, "I know you Sherlock, and I know how your mind works. You're realising that there is someone who is willing to look after a creature like you - who is doing so right now, regardless of the difficulty - despite not being obliged to care for him. She has no links to him, and yet she'll look after him and care for him. And yet, your own father couldn't do the same."

"What can I say John? You already seem to know what's going through my mind."

"You're thinking that it's your fault."

"What?"

"You think he didn't want to take care of you because it was you-"

"That would be ludicrous-"

"And yet, you're still thinking that aren't you?"

"Fine, I was to blame for him leaving; I frightened him away. Perhaps if I was like Arthur, handsome and sweet and unthreatening, he would stayed and looked after me-"

"Of course he wouldn't have! Sherlock, no offense, but your father was a proper bastard." He frowned, and tried to speak, but I stopped him, "no, stop right there! I know you loved him, but he doesn't deserve your affection or your continuing loyalty. He was a horrible man who abandoned something vulnerable and alone because he didn't know how to love anyone, or look after them."

"But he was looking after me; he kept me alive before I woke up, but then I started moving and making noise, and that was what frightened him. He might have stayed-"

"Okay fine, imagine he had stayed. He might have looked after you but he never would have cared for you, or loved you. He didn't know how. And it wouldn't have mattered if you were perfect like Arthur." I reached up to cup his scarred cheek - the scar was slowly beginning to fade now - and I smiled, "And you are perfect, Sherlock, in my eyes. But Victor wouldn't have loved Arthur, any more than he did you, because he didn't know how to love." He gently gripped my hand, where it was resting against his cheek,

"No, he did not - even at the end."

"In fact, I think that whilst he might have approved of Arthur's aesthetic; he would have grown tired of him. From what you've told me, the two of you were permanently locked in a game of cat and mouse; he was scared, but you fascinated him with your intelligence, and your ability to learn, and develop. Even at the end of his life, the two of you were tied together by genius. Do you think he would have been like that with Arthur? No, because Arthur wouldn't feed his arrogance and his pride."

"John-" He warned lightly, apparently thinking that I was on the verge of insulting one of his beloved creations,

"Don't get me wrong; Arthur's fantastic. He's handsome, and sweet, and happy, but he's not a genius. Victor would not have taken care of him any more than he did you, and that goes the same for Ben, Emily, and our Victor, and none of you are to blame. He killed his female creations, for God's sake! I think that shows how incapable he was of caring, and that was his flaw, and not yours Sherlock. Okay?"

He nodded, before turning to go back into the flat. His phone must have buzzed because he stopped, and answered it,

"Mrs Hudson," he said to the woman on the other end of the phone. She was saying saying, but I couldn't hear was was being said. "We can be there in twenty minutes." He hung up, and turned to me, "We're not going home, yet. Mrs Hudson has decided that our 'odd little family' as she calls it needs to get together." He pushed open the front door to find Sally, and Arthur on the bottom step,

"She phoned us as well. Arthur, get your coat."

"But it's warm!"

"Yes, but it might get cold, and then you'll want it." He sighed, but did as instructed and fetched the coat, "Did she say if we need anything?"

"No, just ourselves apparently. She's waiting with Lestrade, Victor, and Ben and Emily in Hampstead Heath. Do you have your police car?"

"Yes, it's just round the back."

An hour later, I found myself in the rather bizarre situation of being sat beside Mycroft Holmes... without his suit. He was by no means informal; he was wearing a shirt, waistcoat and dark trousers, but the sleeves were rolled up and the top button undone. It was quite a change from the bespoke three piece suits... sort of the equivalent of a normal person changing into speedos for the first time when you've only ever seen them dressed. He was also sat on a picnic blanket, with a paper plate and a slice of victoria sponge cake,

"So... um... good weather, isn't it?" I asked, trying to make small talk through the awkwardness of the situation.

"Yes, quite." Lestrade was sniggering on Mycroft's other side, clearly finding my confusion at the situation extremely funny. I shot him a dirty look behind Mycroft's back. Mrs Hudson seemed to be loving it all though; clapping her hands and cheering Sherlock on as he chased Victor. He had been pulled into a game of 'it' and at first had sullenly refused to be manipulated into playing, but then Victor had began with the crocodile tears - he seemed to have gotten Sherlock's ability to cry on cue - and he soon found himself running after his four creations, looking bemused but apparently enjoying it.

He caught Victor, and swung him up onto his shoulders with a smile; Arthur was grinning, and babbling to Victor over Sherlock's shoulders. Victor seemed to be enjoying it, babbling along with his older brother. Ben and Emily had disappeared behind a tree by this point, leaving the younger creations to talk to Sherlock - the game forgotten. All of Sherlock's creations seemed quite happy to be around each other, but Victor and Arthur got along particularly well - they seemed to be on the same wavelength. As soon as Sherlock put him back down on the floor; Victor grabbed his brother's hand and pulled him off into the crowds of people - who had all gathered to make the most of the first sunny day of the summer. He was pointing things out to Arthur, and explaining them,

"They get along very well, don't they?" I nodded at Lestrade,

"Yeah, both young and eager."

"Shame to think they'll lose that in a few years, isn't it?" Again, I nodded, as I noticed the look on Sherlock's face as he watched his creations go. His thoughts seemed to be on the same sort of line, and when he looked around him and saw that he was left alone he immediately turned to look at me. A look of relief washed over his expressions, just for a second, and I realised that he was using me as his anchor; whenever he felt alone, and like they had all abandoned him, he looked at me and saw the one person that would never leave him. I smiled at him reassuringly, and he came over to stand in front of us,

"Eating again, so soon after lunch, Mycroft?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow in response,

"Mrs Hudson makes excellent cake, and it would be a shame to see it go to waste."

"I do believe that that was exact excuse that mummy would use to convince me to let you finish off the last slice of cake." Mycroft tensed slightly at the mention of their mummy, but he sighed,

"Yes, well mummy was always had a light touch to parenting." Lestrade grinned from his side,

"Was Sherlock a disciplinarian or something?"

"When he was around, yes, he could be quite strict."

"I did it with your best interests in mind."

"Most of the time." They shared a glare, and then Sherlock said quietly,

"I wasn't always so cruel as you make me out to be, Mycroft. I might have been strict, but I knew how to be kind as well." Lestrade leant forward in interest, as Sherlock walked away in search of Victor and Arthur,

"What _was_ he like when he was bringing you up, Mycroft?" Mycroft looked like he was going to be typically secretive, and then suddenly his expression softened and became almost fond,

"He was absent a lot of the time, due to work, and he had difficulty being affectionate, but it's true. He could be kind, and supportive. He used to lift me on his shoulders, or put me to bed and read me a story, and comfort me after nightmares."

"When did you stop being so close?"

"About the time that he sent me to boarding school. I thought it was because he didn't want me at home with him, but I later saw that he did it because he knew I had potential, and he was always very complimentary of my intelligence, and my looks - when others were less kind - and if it weren't for him then I might have ended up with ghastly wife, rather than you, Gregory." I pulled a face at the slight sentimental tone seeping into his voice, and looked at Sally - who was sat beside Mrs Hudson on the other blanket - to see my expression almost perfectly mirrored,

"Right," I cleared my throat, "I'm going to go find, Sherlock. Enjoy your cake, Mycroft." He didn't hear me; he was too busy looking at his partner.

I found Sherlock walking just a few feet behind Arthur, and Victor, to keep an eye on them, but not interrupt. We watched as Arthur reached down to put Victor on his shoulder; the little boy threw out his arms like an airplane, giggling and whooping for his brother to run faster. When they slowed down, he hugged the top of his brother's head,

"When I grow up, Arthur, I'm gonna be pilot." Arthur looked up at him,

"What's that?" The little boy grinned,

"You get to fly airplanes, and it's really fun, and you get to go all round the world and have adventures."

"What's an airplane?" Victor pointed upwards, at a tiny little dot in the horizon,

"That's an airplane! Father said that airplanes can take you anywhere, and you can do anything, and it'll mean I get to go away from the flat. I don't want to be in the flat, it's too small and not very exciting. I want to see the world."

"Won't you miss Sherlock, and John?"

"I'll come back, and see them lots."

"What about me?"

"I'll see you lots, too. You're my favourite brother."

"You're mine too." I smiled at them, as Victor wiggled round to hug Arthur's neck and hang around it like a monkey. I turned to watch Sherlock, and realised that he was smiling. I walked up, taking his hand in mind,

"What are you smiling about?" He looked down at me, almost looking surprised by my sudden appearance at his side,

"I was just thinking how glad I am that they have each other. I never had that, and they get along better than I could have hoped."

"That's what brothers are for." He nodded, and then looked sad,

"Mycroft and I were like that once."

"You know he didn't mean what he meant - Mycroft, I mean."

"It's Mycroft, of course he did."

"Okay fine; but that wasn't everything that he meant. He said some really nice stuff about you after you left."

"Yes, I imagine he did. He always had greater difficulty saying nice things to my face; he never shows his true emotions. He learnt that from the master." I squeezed his hand,

"Victor's not going to be like that. You're doing a good job with him, and much better than your father either did; you're doing well with all of them in fact, and even if Victor does become a pilot - and fly off round the world - I promise you that he'll come back. He loves you, and even when he's not nearby he'll love you. And for those times when he's not there, you've always got me."


	70. Jim, in the library, with the dagger?

**2013 - Moriarty, in the library, with the lead piping?**

**Sherlock POV**

Stretching out my spine, I checked the clock; I had ten minutes until I needed to pick Victor up from school. It reminded me of my time in the 1970s when Mycroft was Victor's age, if slightly older, when I would wait for the whole day to get to pick him up. Then, finally, I would meet him at the school-gates, take his chubby hand in mine, and we would walk home together - as we chatted about our respective days.

It almost made me pine for a time when I could trust Mycroft, and when we were open with each other and happy. It was a time when I didn't feel like he could turn his back on me at any time - if it suited his agenda. Lestrade told me that he wasn't like that anymore, but I couldn't really trust that judgement. It also made me slightly paranoid that when Victor was older we would have a similar fall out and I would lose someone else. I don't think I could bear that, Victor was my pride and my reward for my lonely days. To lose him would be like losing Mycroft a hundred times over, but there would be no recovering.

There was one definite difference between Victor and Mycroft's childhoods, however. Whilst both of them were very bright, intelligent boys who excelled in their lessons; Victor didn't come home from school with tears in his eyes. Every day, when I picked him up, I worried that it would be a tearful broken little boy who I took home - a boy who had been subjected to hatred or mocking or fear due to his scars - but so far, whilst there had been a few minor incidents, the headmistress had kept her word.

Pulling my coat on, I left a note to John to inform him that I had gone to pick up Victor - should he arrive home during my absence - and went in search of a taxi. When I arrived, I made the same observations about the school that I made every day - it was second nature for me to breakdown objects into details and facts when I saw them, and a comforting routine. It was an extremely large white building that looked to have been built in the early 1700s, and stuck out like a sore thumb in London against the backdrop of modern glass and metal buildings that loomed on the horizon now. John always remarked that it was a lovely building, that the resources were excellent and that it had a good reputation. All I cared about was that Victor seemed to left in peace; his teacher was a fairly intelligent man who stimulated all of his children intellectually and was pleasingly strict.

In the first week another boy had attempted to make a rude comment about Victor's scars; not only had the teacher sufficiently punished the boy, but Victor had apparently won himself a gaggle of loyal friends in the ensuing rush to comfort my son. I was happy to allow him to remain in the school.

The school buses were getting ready to leave, parents were milling about picking up their children, and the older children were wondering through the gates in groups on their ways home. I pushed my way through a throng of giggling teenage girls from the secondary school - who were eyeing me in a slightly irritating, and surprisingly flirtatious, way. Nearly two years had passed since the day when Moriarty and his goon had tortured me, and since then much had changed about me. The patches cut out of my hair had grown through, and covered the worst of my scars - on my head - and my scars had begun to fade quite well due to the combination of my own treatments and time. Now they were merely purplish marks, and Victor and I were both beginning to look almost normal. Still, the girls apparently hardly even noticed the scars - John said that people didn't pay as much attention to them as I did - and were giggling at a level that was rather annoying.

I headed in the direction of the library; usually Victor waited there with David, since the other boy couldn't leave until his mother had finished work, and Victor usually had to either wait for me to finish my case, or John to finish work, before we could pick him up. On particularly busy days we occasionally had Mrs Hudson or one of the residents of 221C pick him up. Today, however, neither boy was in the library; in fact the entire library was empty.

I frowned as I stepped inside, and instantly I realised what was wrong. Victor's school bag was lying abandoned by one of the tables, the bag was overturned and the books had spilled out across the floor. The book on top was a copy of Hansel and Gretel; my first thought was, and rightfully so,

"It's happening again-" I jumped across the room to grab the book up. I could feel my heart begin to pound as something fell into my hands - a sprinkling of crumbs. Moriarty was teasing me, reminding me of a case that had almost been my downfall and taking my son in the same brutal strike.

The door opened and someone called out,

"Okay, sweetiem, I've finished for the day. We can go home now." She looked up from the purse she had been fiddling with, confused by the lack of response, and jumped when she saw me, "Oh, Mr Holmes, how nice to see you. Where are Victor and David?" I fixed her with a look,

"I could ask you the same question."

"I don't know what you mean-"

"I would have thought there would be measures in place to stop strangers walking in and snatching children from the school." Her face went white in an instant,

"Oh my Go- why didn't you go to security? We have to get them back!"

"We will, but security will be of no use." I held up the book, "They left me a clue."

"What? Why on Earth would they do that?"

"Moriarty wants to speak to me, and he wants me to know that if I don't do what he says then he'll hurt them." She was visibly shaking at the thought of what might be happening to her son but - to her credit - she managed to pull herself together,

"How is that book going to help?" I turned it over, trying to find anything that might be of help,

"There are clues to where they are. The handful of breadcrumbs must be telling me that this is the start of the trail and I need to follow them to get them back." I looked, analysing anything that could be a clue to where they were hiding,

"Is there anything else-"

"Give me a minute; I cannot be rushed-"

"Well, you have to be! They have my little boy-"

"Don't you think I know how you feel?" I snapped at her over the book. She went quiet, and I carried on looking, "This book was printed in a small, abandoned printing factory in the docklands area. It's close to where I was held captive by Moriarty, and where my... friends are running riot. They've been causing trouble in that area, and I know I suppose they are including kidnapping and holding children there. The breadcrumbs most likely come from the abandoned millennium mill not far from that factory."

"Well, which building will they be in then? The printing factory or the mill?"

"Get your coat. We're going to find out." The cab ride to the docklands area, and the factories, was the longest of my life. We flung money to the cabbie and practically flew out of the car - John's reply to my frantic message was just a faint beep in the back of my head,

"Where now?" she asked me frantically, looking between the factories I pointed out. I looked at the book, flicking through pages for ideas, "Which factory?"

"Let me think!" I ran through the corridors of my mind palace - ransacking everything for an idea - and then it struck me, "That's it!"

"What is?" I shot off to the left, and she wasn't far behind,

"Where are you going? The mill and printing factory are back there-"

"They're not in either of them!"

"What are you talking about? You said-"

"You're not as good of a sidekick as John. He was here then he would just accept what I'm saying, and say I'm brilliant-" She huffed behind me, lagging behind in the run as she tried to sprint in heels,

"You're not bloody brilliant-"

"The swearing's a bit more like John-"

"You're infuriating, you know that?"

"Yes, I'm told that frequently!"

"So, what did you find? What was the clue? Where are they?"

"One question at a time. The clue was the powder on the front of the book; I thought it was dust and flour, but it's not. It's _firework powder_! The breadcrumbs were to lead us to this area, the printing to try to confuse us, but fireworks are more Moriarty's style. They're the climax of any show - explosive and flashy - he clearly decided that the abandoned firework factory would suit the climax of this plot. Besides, the factory is little more than a corrugated iron shed - so it's less public, and less likely for people to happen across the crime. I have very little doubt it's where they're hiding."

"I have to admit that _that was_ a little bit brilliant!"

"Here, over here!" We skidded to a halt outside the locked gates. I glanced at her stilettos, "Can you climb in those shoes?"

"I'll climb with my feet in those bandages that Chinese women wear to disfigure their feet - if it means getting my son back. Try to keep up." She started shimmying up the metal fence, and - with a small jumping start - I scaled the fence with ease and pulled myself over. I dropped down on the other side and helped her down - leading her towards the building. "Is that little building over there?" I nodded, and put a finger to my lips,

"If they don't already know we're here, it could help to have the element of surprise. Follow me." We dropped into the extremely overgrown grass and bushes and began to edge closer. We tried to keep our heads low, and below the overgrown undergrowth, and we kept a careful watch for movement around us. We were about five feet away from the building when there was no undergrowth left to hide in.

I gestured silently for her to stay and keep watch; I didn't wanting to even attempt to whisper when we were so close. My creations had heightened senses, and if they were the ones holding Victor and David captive then I didn't want to risk them hearing. I dropped my phone in her hands - knowing that she would keep John updated.

Taking a deep breath, I sprinted for the building and tried to open the door as quietly as possible, only for it to be in vain. The second I opened the door, there was a gun being pointed in my face by a wicked looking woman with dark hair and smug grin on blood red lips. She reminded me of an even more lovely version of Irene; I had no doubt that she would probably hit it off with the dominatrix - if they were ever to meet.

"Take another step and your children die."

"Marie-"

"Do not try to convince me that you and I are alike, that we are of one kind, or that you can help me to be human. I do not wish to be human. Humans are inferior, and you – my self-deprecating creator – have been tainted by their emotions. You will never convince me to love. I do not wish to lower myself to such standards."

"Fine, I can recognise a lost cause when I see one, but hurt my child-"

"What will you do? How pitiful. You make six perfect creatures and then you make another and ruin it. You filled it with emotions and weakness. If he had been like us then this," she turned and for the first time I caught a glimpse of Victor, and the terror evident in his face, "would not be a concern. Pointing a gun to his head would be of no concern for you if he weren't a normal boy. But he's weak - he's human - and if I shoot him then he dies - the same as you. We could have been perfect, a master race, but you wanted us to experience love. You ruined them. Sebastian and I will not be fooled." She flicked the safety catch,

"Why are you doing this?"

"I want you to realise you were a fool-"

"You wanted my attention; just like Moriarty always did, and you wanted to play the game."

"Yes, and I'm rather enjoying it-"

"You have a gun to my son's head."

"As I said, I'm enjoying it."

"Then I know now that you are a lost cause. You're just like him, Moriarty, you just want people to suffer for the sake of it. A perfect one track murderer." She flashed me a grin, which I supposed would have been charming and friendly if it hadn't bee paired with a gun to my son's head,

"As I said, you made six perfect creatures... it's a shame only two of them remain as such, but Jim's helping us and teaching us. Ruthless killing machines he calls us, and in a few years we'll be his partners - his equals."

"Then have that. Go live that life, but leave Victor out of it - he didn't ask for any of this. I'll do anything, give you anything, just don't hurt Victor-" She let out a small gleeful giggle, as cold as it was menacing,

"I want nothing from you, I just want to see you squirm. Jim doesn't know I'm here, you could say that I went rogue, I wanted to see the genius creator who Jim speaks so highly off so I set up a trap that would lead her here... but I have been disappointed. Once upon a time you were like me, a murderer, cold and apathetic, and look where it's become of you – cowering and pleading for the life a tiny little child. Pathetic."

"I don't care what you think about love, it's probably nothing I haven't felt in my past. Caring is not an advantage, I know that as sharply as anyone else. If I didn't care this wouldn't hurt, and I wouldn't be afraid now. The emotions wouldn't cloud my mind, and frighten me. I know that caring isn't an advantage... but I don't care - sentiment is more important to me than anything. I would rather have loved and lost then to have never known love at all-" She grinned once more, and I saw her finger twitch,

"Oh really? We'll have to test that theory ou-"

That's when it happened.

Before she could even finish her sentence, a bullet burrowed its way into her chest and knocked her down onto her knees. The children let out screams; if they weren't already traumatised by the kidnap then they certainly were going be now - especially since she seemed unaffected as she climbed to her feet. She was still grinning, though she struggled slightly as she got to her feet, "I see your doctor has arrived."

"Yes, but usually when he brings a gun it works. This is slightly different, I must say."

"He's forgotten that I'm rather... insensitive to a bullet wound - if the ten scars you have from the Somme are anything to go by."

"Yes, they definitely are." John was beside me now, and panting slightly after sprinting to get here in time,

"What do we do then, Sherlock? Since that didn't really kill her." I looked at her sadly, as I realised what had become of my beloved creation, and then gave the order that had to be given,

"Shoot her again - multiple times, please, and in the forehead if you can manage. Boys don't look." They didn't need telling twice. They screwed their eyes up , letting out tiny whimpers of fear at ever shot, until she was lying flat on the ground and the bullets were all gone. He looked at her, horror and disgust clear in his eyes when he stooped down to check her pulse and felt it still pumping.

"She's still alive."

"Yes, she is."

"Do you want me to kill her?" I shook my head as I said,

"No, I doubt you could accomplish it. She might die for a minute, or two, but she would keep coming back."

"But she has three bullets in her brain!"

"It would be a life of agony - she would be conscious throughout, and she would probably never heal - but she would be alive and awake."

"What do we do?" I sighed, and lowered my voice to ensure the children wouldn't hear,

"I will have to do it."

"Do you want to?"

"No, not particularly. But I don't think I have a choice, she cannot be redeemed and... if she did recover then it would be for a life of captivity. I know what it's like to rot away in a mental institute, or behind bars. As much as I hate her... she is alive because of me. She didn't ask to be created, none of us did, and she's only doing what she's been taught... but she would have to be punished for that. This is kinder."

"Then, what do we do?"

"We send David home with his mother, you take Victor to stay with Mycroft and Lestrade and... she'll be gone by the morning." John reached out and gently gripped my hand, as he asked quietly,

"Are you sure? This won't be easy for you, Sherlock."

"No, but it has to be done." I looked at him dead in the eye, trying to convince him even when I couldn't fully convince myself, as he asked,

"How will you do it? Morphine?"

"No, her body's too strong now and it would just knock her out. I'm afraid it'll have to use more... destructive methods. Nothing visible, but I'll take her out of the world in the same way she was brought into it." His eyes widened in realisation, as he said quietly,

"The electrical pack you used to bring the others to life."

"Yes."

"Will it hurt?"

"Like nothing else. I will, in crude terms, be frying her brain."

"It has to be done, Sherlock." He told me, and even though I knew it was the truth, it still hurt. I nodded as I looked down at her; she was truly beautiful - ven as the blood dripped down her temple, and stained porcelain skin crimson. I turned back to him and said quietly,

"I know."

"She can't be brought back?" I shook my head; the thought had briefly crossed my mind, but it had been dismissed. I had to convince him of that,

"She's too developed now; to kill her I have to destroy her brain, to then bring her back would be to bring her into a life where she may be mentally or physically disabled, if even that, and she may never regain full consciousness. This is... kinder." He rubbed a hand over his face; he was clearly trying to be supportive, but I could see the indecisiveness on his face. It was a good thing that the decision wasn't his to make, as he asked me quietly,

"Then why does it feel so wrong?"

"The right choice isn't always the easy one. Unfortunately, it has to be done. Untie Victor and David, I'm going to procure a vehicle."

"Steal a vehicle, do you mean?"

"Borrow, I prefer borrow, since I promise to bring it back. But first-" The second John released Victor's bindings the tearful boy fell into our arms, and we held him tight. John's voice was thick, and sounded suspiciously like he was crying when he said into Victor's school jumper,

"Thank God you're alive. You don't know how worried we were, Victor!"

"I thought I was going to die!"

"You would never have died, Victor, we wouldn't let you!" He grinned through the tears as David's mother rushed in, tired of waiting for us outside and more than a little bit anxious about the earlier gunshots. As soon as she saw David, who was shaking as he stared at the woman on the ground, she ran to him and picked him up.

"Oh God. Thank you, Sherlock, I don't know what I'd have done if it weren't for you."

"If it weren't for me David probably wouldn't have been kidnapped, but I see your point and accept your thank you." John just smiled and then looked at the woman on the floor. Her eyes were open, and she was watching through half cracked lids with a half-smile - even through what must have been an unbearable level of pain. John shivered slightly, but looked away and said quietly,

"Go get the car, Sherlock." I nodded as I left the hut. I needed a moment alone, to reflect what I had almost lost today and to collect my strength to go through with the rest of the day. The night wasn't going to be a pleasant one. I would just have to keep reminding myself that this was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do. Even if it made me think back to a time, many years ago, when I had killed others.

Only, this time, it was in cold blood.

* * *

**AN. Unless anything changes there are only seven chapters left to go - most of which has been written. I'm just letting you guys know that updates may slow considerably since I'm getting towards my A-Level exams now, but otherwise we'll be finishing very soon.**


	71. 2013 - Annabelle

2013 - Annabelle

John POV

It will come as no surprise when I tell you that Sherlock wasn't himself over the next few months. He was subdued and hardly sleeping, as he picked at old wounds and felt them reopening to spill their poisonous guilt back into his system, where it congealed with the new feelings and overwhelmed him. Most of his time was spent in the flat, barely moving from the sofa or talking, deep in thought; it wasn't that he was crying or angry, it was that he was just vacant, almost broken. When Sherlock got sad or angry I knew that I could talk to him, that he was unleashing his emotions healthily and dealing with them, this was far more self-destructive and loathing.

None of his cases interested him at the moment, and he explained his mood better than I could,

"I'm tired John; I've been on this earth for one hundred and ninety four years, but sometimes it seems like an eternity; in that time I've suffered, I've loved and I've lost and I've watched so many people die, some at my own hand, and I have seen so many murders. And with those murderers I was introduced to another world of hatred, or betrayal and loathing outside of that which had been directed towards me. The one thing that kept me going was that the deaths that were my fault... they weren't intentional, but now I've killed someone and I did it in cold blood.

"If it weren't for you and Victor, I don't know where I'd be right now; perhaps I would have treated myself in the same way that I did Marie." There was nothing I could say to that, nothing that would actually make an impact, I'd said it all before and he probably knew my argument by heart, so I just sat with him, resting my hand on his and gently letting him know I was there, if he wanted to talk. He never did.

He hadn't let Victor go back into school since the incident, however, and I was starting to think that he would never let him leave 221B again. Until, one day out of the blue, Sherlock actually responded with a yes when I asked him if he wanted to go out for a meal. He hadn't really been very receptive to any romance of late; he usually stayed up all night and didn't come to bed, he barely paid attention if I tried to flirt or touch him, and he was distracted if I tried to kiss him. I just sort of guessed that he would cope, but he didn't. So, you can imagine how surprised I was when I got a yes when I asked him out for a meal.

We left Victor with Mrs Hudson for the evening, who was only too happy to watch him, and headed to a little French style restaurant that he knew. I took one look at it and knew it was out of my price range, but apparently the owner had a similiar deal with Sherlock as Angelo had and everything was free for him and his date. This time I didn't protest the title.

He didn't eat much; he hadn't been eating in a while, but he picked the occasional nibble off of my plate if he thought I wasn't looking. Not that I would begrudge him if he asked for any of it, he was beginning to look gaunt and haunted by... what he had done, but he didn't want to admit that I was right about him needing food. He'd gone so long as a machine, never really needing to eat, that he got frustrated by his slow body suddenly wanting to eat.

When the meal ended I was surprised by a gloved hand reaching out to take mine. It was a welcome change, but I said nothing in case I frightened him off,

"Shall we go home, or do you have any more plans for the evenin-" I was cut off by someone running full speed at Sherlock and attaching herself to him with such force that I almost expected her to knock him flat on his back. I stared down at the figure; she was a girl of about twelve, who managed to be pretty much the same height as me, who currently had her arms around Sherlock. He was staring down at her in confusion, and clearly wondering how he had come to have another person clinging to him.

Her face was obscured by a mass of red curls, but finally her head tipped back to expose a freckled face and ridiculously large green eyes, which reminded me of a startled owl. Instantly, Sherlock was grabbing her face and expecting her more closely. She grinned, completely unfazed by that apparently, bright white teeth on show,

"Sherlock; I knew it was you!"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" I asked from Sherlock's side. He gave me a look of shock at her appearance, so clearly he knew who she was. She smiled, and held out a hand politely, which I took,

"I am Annabelle, the fourth creation of Sherlock Holmes, and I have finally found him! I escaped from Jim," she turned back to Sherlock, "he is very angry at you for killing Marie, she was one of his favourite's." She didn't seem to see Sherlock's face drop. He had been smiling just seconds previously, thrilled about being reunited with his creation, but suddenly the light was extinguished and he was back into his moping. I touched his arm lightly, to draw his attention, so I could try and distract him,

"Sherlock, is that true? Is this your creation?" He nodded over her head, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to hug him. He looked at her in surprise, without responding for a minute, and then placed his hands on his back lightly, a small smile replacing the heartbreaking expression that had been on his face just seconds prior,

"Yes, it's Annabelle. I can't quite believe it; you say you escaped by yourself?"

"I did not want to help, Jim, he wants me to do bad things. I ran away."

"It looks like Jim's creations aren't quite living up to expectations," I said with a grin, "four - and apparently now five - of them have gone against everything he believed in." _And the other is gone, _I added in my head - because saying it out loud would only hurt him.

"I want to be a human, like Sherlock, I don't want to kill people. Jim made us do it," she shuddered, and I felt a rush of sympathy for the girl, "but I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want to be like Marie." Sherlock's entire body went tense, but he seemed to at least look composed,

"No, that's good."

"It was horrible living with Jim. He would teach us about his business, and make us train to fight... and he made us hurt people. They were often bad people, but I didn't like it anyway, and then he would make me go out with the others on hunts, and find people to kill - Arthur used to be really good, and so was Marie, and they worked together. I usually go with Sebastian, but he's been really angry since you hurt Marie. Now I don't want to be near him, and I really don't want to hurt anymore people. I didn't want to do it, but they would hurt me if I didn't."

Sherlock frowned, looking more and more furious at the treatment of his creations, "After you took the others away, we had to train even more. He didn't want to lose anymore of us, so he would keep us locked away for most of the time, and then I was just left with Sebastian and Marie - and they loved what they doing. I wanted something else, and I started to remember a man talking to me before I was alive. He had a really nice voice; he used to tell me about beautiful places, and adventures, and the wonderful people outside. He told me about how he managed to fall in love with a man called John, and how he now had a soul."

I smiled at that, looking at Sherlock to see that the look was mirrored on his face, "I decided that I wanted a soul, and my own John. So when Jim told me that the voice belonged to a man called Sherlock, I decided to run away on our next hunt. I've been on my own for a few days and I saw you in the news, so I knew you lived in 221 Baker Street. I've been following you, and now I'm here. Can you help me, Sherlock?" He looked at her, looking quite saddened by the fact she was clearly not expecting him to be kind and say yes. But, of course, he nodded,

"Yes, I will do my best to help you find your soul, and someone to love you." I gave him a look over the curls,

"Don't you think she's a bit young for that, Sherlock?"

"Not in that way, John. I have another idea for how it might work - just as it worked for Victor. Come with us, Annabelle." She grinned, slipping her hand into his and making him blink in surprise. He didn't let go, but he still stared at their hands for a minute, before pulling her alone towards home.

When we arrived home, we didn't go up the stairs into 221B as I had been expecting - nor did we go into 221C to see Ben and Emily, and ask for their help, as I had sort of thought we might. Instead, he turned, and let himself into Mrs Hudson flat. There was a brief startled sound, since we didn't often pop in unannounced, but she was still welcoming. She had been in the middle of fussing around her flat, cleaning as she waited for the cakes in her oven to bake. Victor was sat at the table, covered in cake mixture, but as soon as he saw Sherlock he shouted,

"Father, you're home!" Sherlock smiled at him, "You're early."

"We couldn't stand to be away for long." He ran to hug Sherlock, who whispered something about going upstairs and getting ready for bed. Victor rushed to give me a hug, looking at Annabelle curiously as he passed, and asked me quietly,

"Who's that?"

"That's Annabelle; she's like Arthur, Ben and Emily - we're trying to find her a home."

"She's nice."

"Yes, but she'd sad. You'll have to be extra nice to her - just like you are with Arthur."

"Okay, you can tell Mrs Hudson that she can give her some of the cupcakes we've made!" I nodded,

"Sounds like a plan. Off to be."

"Night, dad." He hugged me quickly, and smiled at Annabelle as he passed, before disappearing out of Mrs Hudson's flat and over to the stairs.

Sherlock turned his attention back to our landlady,

"Mrs Hudson." I raised an eyebrow - that was the charming voice he normally used when he was about to manipulate someone. She didn't seem to notice because she was too busy smiling, and transferring cupcakes to a wire rack,

"Hello, dear. Oh, who's this?" Annabelle smiled and waved timidly, from where she was partially hiding behind Sherlock's shoulders - a pale, freckled hand holding onto his sleeve for support. Sherlock gently put an arm around her, so he could put his hand to the small of her back and push her fowards encouragingly - offering her up to Mrs Hudson's scrutiny. I was fairly certain I knew what he was up to now.

"I found her on the street," I shot Sherlock a warning look. It technically wasn't a lie, but it was still manipulating Mrs Hudson. "She's homeless. I was wondering if you could find her something to eat." Mrs Hudson practically jumped to help, pulling the poor girl to a chair and rushing around the kitchen in search of food,

"Of course I can! Come sit down dear, I'll make you a nice meal to feel you up - oh dear, you're just skin and bones aren't you. Here have some of the cakes." She put a pile of the little fairy cakes in front of the girl - who eagerly tucked in - and gave Sherlock a look, "And why don't you have anything for her, Seherlock? I'm sure I saw John do a shop yesterday." Sherlock shrugged, blatantly ignoring the look that I shot him telling him that yes I had actually done a shop yesterday,

"I don't think so, Mrs Hudson. Besides, we just needed to bring her in here because we wondering if you could watch her whilst we ring social services-"

"What? Sherlock, no! You said you would help me," Annabelle looked like she would be tearing up if she could, the same look I had seen on Sherlock's face in the early days after we'd met - before he could cry. "I don't want to go to social services-"

"I'm afraid we haven't got room for you Annabelle." He said, and I knew there was definitely something going on because he would never just turf out one of his creations. He knew how painful it was to be rejected by your creature, he was hardly going to do it his own creation... was he? He certainly looked convincing, "I suppose we could offer you a room for the night, but you would have to share with Victor-"

"Nonsense," Mrs Hudson interrupted, "you can stay here, dear. I have a spare room if you would like, and I imagine my flat's much cosier and tidier than that all boys' flat upstairs. Would you like to come stay with me? Even if it's just for a little while?" Annabelle shot up, jumping to hug our landlady – not our housekeeper, I added subconsciously in the back in the back of my head – and gleefully shout,

"Oh yes, please, miss-"

"Call me, Mrs Hudson. What's your name, dear?"

"Annabelle."

"That's a lovely name, Annabelle. Shall I show you to your room? You look very tired. Luckily, I made the guest bed up for my sister the other day, but she didn't visit in the end, so you can sleep there."

"Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson!" She patted the girl's arm gently, and smiled warmly,

"You're very welcome," she said, before turning back and fixing Sherlock with a stern look. I guess his trickery hadn't gone entirely unnoticed then - the old woman was more astute then we gave her credit. "You two can wait here - I need to talk to you both." When she turned back to Annabelle the smile had returned, "Follow me dearie. I'm sure I have a spare pair of pyjamas you can wear."

As soon as they were out of the room, I hissed at Sherlock - keeping my voice low so they wouldn't hear me.

"What the Hell are you up to? Poor Mrs Hudson, how will she react when she finds out who Annabelle really is?"

"She'll be surprised I imagine and then probably won't mind, she's a very liberal woman. She was after all the one who thought we only wanted the one bedroom when we first moved in together-"

"Sherlock, you can't just assume she'll be alright with this-"

"Why would she not be? It might have escaped your notice, but the artificial humans outnumber the normal ones at a ratio of two to one in this flat, already. One more is hardly going to make the difference-"

"It might when you're asking her to take this girl into her own flat, and mother her. She might not want Annabelle around. You're letting the poor girl get attached, and we may have to break her heart!"

"No, we won't. Mrs Hudson might not realise it now, but that girl is not going to leave. She's in for good now."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know Mrs Hudson. Better than you I imagine."

"Enlighten me. What makes you so certain that she'll want to play foster mother?"

"Because she has _always_ wanted a family. She might have us, but she's still lonely. She's the most maternal woman we know, why hasn't she got children?"

"I guess-" I paused, "I never really thought about it. I just assumed she might not have been able to have children, or didn't want them-"

"Of course she did; anyone who's met her knows she's a born mother, but she never had her own children - even though she was desperate - because of an abusive husband. He refused her a family, and it broke her heart. She recently talked about fostering, but she's getting older and they tend to frown on that for prospective foster parents. I'm giving her the chance to be a mother, and I certainly think she's going to take it-"

"Sherlock," we looked up at the return of Mrs Hudson. She had her strict mother face on, and her arms crossed, "don't think for a second you got away with any of that. I know exactly who and what she is and I know what you're up."

"Okay. And your decision?"

"Come here." Sherlock shrunk in on himself - slinking towards her like a puppy that's failed it's house training. Mrs Hudson was a wonderful woman, and the sweetest little thing I had ever had the pleasure to know, but she could be a terrifying woman when needed. She had slapped the back of Sherlock's hand on a few occasions for the worst of his misbehaviours. Sherlock was clearly worried of reprisals, as he edged closer nervously - expecting to be hit round the back of the head.

She didn't hit him - quite the opposite in fact. As soon as he was close enouh, she pulled him down - with difficulty due to their very noticeable difference in height - and began hugging him, "oh you silly, wonderful boy! You thought I would be angry? You've given me someone to look after, oh thank you Sherlock. You wonderful boy!" Her eyes locked on me over his shoulder, and suddenly I was being crushed into the hug as well, "And you too John!"

"It was honestly all Sherlock's idea."

"Yes, but I doubt he would have thought of it if it weren't for you making him such a big softie - you silly boy." Sherlock looked up from where he was being smothered against her chest, bent practically in half, so she could hug him and mumbled through her blouse,

"I'm going to assume that she's saying yes."

"Of course, now go tell Victor that there's going to be another occupant of 221 Baker Street. Oh Sherlock, I honestly don't know how to thank you."

After the new addition to our little eclectic family in 221 Baker Street; our lives began to look up. Marie's death was a dark blip, but suddenly everyone had exactly what they needed in life. Sherlock and Victor had each other, and they had me, Ben and Emily were happy together, and Mrs Hudson had someone to dote on and mother. Everything seemed perfect, but perfection doesn't last and we were about to be reminded of that very soon.

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**AN. Change of plans! I think I may just bang out the updates quite quickly, and get it over with very soon. I'd love a couple of reviews just to let me know what people are thinking since everything's gone a bit silent on this story, and I don't know if people are enjoying/hating what's happening.**


	72. 2013 - An impenetrable fortress

**2013 - An impenetrable fortress**

**John POV**

When I walked into the flatm to find Mycroft sat with Sherlock, I thought for a minute that it was only going to exacerbate the situation. Sherlock had improved in the past two months, since the first night with Annabelle, but it was still an uphill struggle - a battle between his past and his presence - and, unfortunately, Mycroft's appearences often tended to be an unpleasant reminder of his past.

Except, when Sherlock looked up at me upon my entrance, there was the beginnings of a smile on his face. It was a rare look these days, but there it was... how was this happening when Mycroft was in the same room? Surely, Sherlock smiling and Mycroft being in the same room hadn't happened in about thirty years. Mycroft got to his feet to greet me,

"Ah John, you're finally home. Sherlock tells me you're enjoying the work in the Accident and Emergency unit?"

"Yes, it's fine, what are you doing here?"

"I came to talk to Sherlock about his... shall we call it depression?" Sherlock grimaced slightly but nodded, I cut across him,

"He's been improving over the past few weeks,

"Yes, but he's still struggling isn't he?" Sherlock sighed and spoke over his brother to address me,

"For all his faults, Mycroft can occasionally still be insightful and actually remember that we once meant quite a great deal to each other. He has persuaded me to... leave my work-"

"But you love being a detective, if you stop working you'll only be fed up by the end of the week! Mrs Hudson's walls will never survive it-"

"Yes, that is why it will only be temporary. At this moment in time, after what has happened, I cannot stand to see another person die - another person suffering. I am struggling to see them as simply bodies, and I am beginning to see them as people, which is not helpful in my work. So I wish to spend some time away from it - to recover. Mycroft made me see that that was the right thing to do at the moment."

"We have talked about the various advantages and disadvantages, and Sherlock has made the decision to have a brief time resting at my childhood home."

"I'm going to stay there for a few weeks, away from the city. I'll spend some time keeping bees, doing some research for future cases, perhaps solve some cold cases that do not relate to murders and read some books – I may even be convinced to read a book about the solar system - and, most importantly, I plan to spend time with you and Victor, who will stay with Mycroft for the next week and then join us. So we can have some alone time... if you'll come with me that is."

"Of course I will. You don't even need to ask that." He nodded gratefully, his face slowly breaking into a smile, and looked pointedly at Mycroft. The other man nodded, and left us for a minute, as Sherlock came over to talk to me,

"John, do you know much you mean to me?" I blinked at him in surprise,

"Of course I do-"

"Because I feel like the past few months you have felt neglected."

"Not neglected, Sherlock. Helpless; I didn't feel like I was doing anything to help." Sherlock shook his head, and a hand gently rested on the nape of my neck, pulling me closer so that our foreheads were resting against each other,

"John, you do more by just being here and caring for me then anyone could ever hope to do for me. Just your constant support, and assurance, is extremely important to me, and though you may have a felt like you were doing nothing over the past few months... the truth is you kept me alive. Just by being there. Wanting to stay, supporting me, and telling me that you loved me... I was doubting that I deserved that love, and that's why I didn't respond-" I stared at him, I hadn't even thought of it like that. I just thought he had been so caught up in his world that I had been unable to reach him,

"Sherlock-"

"No, let me explain. After how I treated Marie, I began to doubt that I had changed. I felt no regret, no doubt, or remorse when I killed her, and I felt like I regressed. You deserve more than me, John, and even though I feel like I would die if you weren't there... I tried to let you see that. I have been selfish to keep you."

"Sherlock, I could never love anyone else, and you know that-"

"I do now. You never waivered, John, and you never looked for anything else - even when I was neglecting you, and when I disappeared in on myself. You stayed, and you kept trying, and that means more to me than anything. It might not seem like it, but you were what brought me back. You always fix me. Just like you did in the beginning. You are my soul, John Watson, and though I am not a very communicative man, and I find it hard to say these things even though I feel them bursting out... I will tell you that you mean more to me than I ever thought a human being could. You complete me, in a very literal sense."

I couldn't help but smile at him,

"You too, Sherlock. I know you don't think you deserve my love, but I'm frequently wondering what on Earth I did to deserve you... you're amazing Sherlock, and there would never be anyone else. Even if you left me for a hundred years, and I felt like the most useless person in the world for never being able to reach you, I will always try. I'll never give up on you, and I'm glad I've helped even a little bit-"

"You've more than helped; you've saved me. Don't ever think that you aren't important, or needed, because you are more important than anyone else in the world."

"Except for Victor."

"Okay, you are both equally important. I love you, John."

"I love you too, you idiot." He smiled slightly, and for the first time in months he leant down and kissed me, "About time," I mumbled against his lips.

"I know I haven't been very responsiveness - as I said, that was entirely my fault. Trust me when I say that I plan to focus all of my attention on you during our trip to the countryside. As I said, Victor will be joining us a week later and we can very much enjoy that alone time in a variety of ways-" I grinned slightly at the slight flirtatious tone to Sherlock's voice. He had never been good at propositioning me; normally he just said "John, bedroom, now." or "Get in the cupboard before Lestrade comes back." But I was looking forward to a week alone with him, to enjoy things that hadn't happened in a very long time, and I smiled as nodded. I paused for a second,

"Are you sure you're going to be able to leave the city, and your work? Even if it's only for a few weeks?"

"I never thought I would be able to, and I will not lie and say that it won't be a struggle. But I think that my mind needs a rest. The cases will be here for me when I get back, but if I don't go now... I don't know what I'll do. One day I'll have to retire, I don't want it to be now but I cannot know how much longer I'll be able to last if I don't step away from it for a while. I hope you're not too angry with my decision."

"Angry? Why on Earth would I be angry, Sherlock? You're taking a break, God knows you need one and you deserve one, so why wouldn't I support you? We can leave next week if you like, it'll give us both time to tie up our work and it'll mean Victor doesn't miss out on too much time with his friends - since it's almost the summer holidays."

"Of course."

"Where is he by the way?" Mycroft spoke for him, as he appeared at the door to the kitchen,

"We left him with Gregory, so that we could talk. If you come back to our home you can collect him. I believe Sherlock wanted to take you both out for a meal." Sherlock nodded, collecting his coat and scarf. When Sherlock wasn't looking – although he probably knew what had happened behind his back anyway - I shot a grateful look at Mycroft. For once, he seemed to have actually helped Sherlock; perhaps Lestrade had really helped Mycroft to be a better man. Mycroft gave me a slight nod in response before going ahead of us to call his car. The sleek black Mercedes pulled around the front and Anthea climbed out stiletto first, not even glancing up from where she was tapping away on her phone, to hold the door open for Mycroft. She looked up only briefly to say,

"I rang Gregory to tell him to expect you back soon but there was no response."

"That's not uncommon; Gregory probably got distracted by little boy. No doubt we'll get there to find him plotting how to convince you to hand over your son."

"His biological clock is still ticking then?"

"Of course, you know him Sherlock. He has always wanted children but, with a husband rather than a wife, it's a bit of a delicate situation. We're not all so lucky as to be able to make our own children." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing a threat but I could hear that it was just sadness rather than bitterness in his voice. Sherlock seemed to realise that as well,

"I assume you're having difficulty with the adoption process-" I blinked, Greg hadn't mentioned that the last time we'd been in the pub,

"Really, you're looking to adopt?"

"Yes, it that so surprising?"

"Well, yeah... I can't really imagine you as a father."

"Sherlock has been a guardian on two occasions now, could you have imagined Sherlock as a father before you saw him caring for Victor with your own eyes?" I shrugged; I must admit I would never have pictured Sherlock as being a good - or particularly loving - parent if I hadn't been witness,

"Good point. I wouldn't have thought you'd have any problem getting them to see you as suitable. Plenty of money, good jobs, and not too old; can't you just pull some strings?"

He sighed, looking surprisingly tired as he glanced up at the house the car had stopped in front of, a huge luxurious terrace house – reminding me of a miniature Buckingham Palace - looking out over Regent's park. Mycroft's home had most likely cost more than I could ever hope to earn even if I worked for a hundred years. I'd only been here a few times. It was always too large and too posh, for my taste, with echoing corridors and staff hiding around every corner to serve us. It made me feel too scruffy and out of place.

Even Sherlock didn't feel like he fitted in, though he looked as regal and aristocratic as Mycroft in the building - more so even. I suspect it was because he had spent a great proportion of his life homeless, and occasionally visiting similar majestic buildings belonging to his family, and knowing they didn't want him there. I could understand why he didn't feel comfortable being there.

Greg told me that for the first week of living there he had crept round with no shoes on, for fear of dirtying the place, and he still reached instinctively for a gun when someone came into the bedroom to open the curtains for him and bring him breakfast. The butler had almost jumped out of his skin the first time that happened and had been taught to set an alarm clock before waking the jumpy detective inspector.

It was a shame they didn't have a child of their own to spoil. I could easily imagine a small chubby child in almost Victorian garb, reminding me of Sherlock's description of a young Mycroft, growing up here and being endlessly spoilt by a doting Lestrade and the team of maids and butlers and footmen who would put Downton Abbey to shame. I imagine Mycroft would be prim, and proper, and outwardly a disciplinarian - but on the inside he would be happy that Greg had finally gotten what he wanted.

I was pulled back to reality by Mycroft answering my question,

"We've been deemed suitable to adopt, it's finding a child we wish to take into our care for the rest of our life; Greg wants a very young child or an infant, I would be happy to have a slightly older child-" Sherlock rolled his eyes and cut across us,

"Yes, that's enough clucking, you old hens, can we go in please? The longer I leave Victor in there, the less likely it is that I'll be able to pry him away from Lestrade's bosom. Come on John." In a whirl of coat tails, Sherlock had leapt to his feet and crossed to the front door. We stopped behind him, as he knocked energetically. He turned, frowning, and looked at the mirrored expression on Mycroft's face,

"What?" I asked, perplexed as to why they were exchanging worried looks, "what's wrong?"

"Siddons, Mycroft's butler, usually answers before I can even knock; is he unwell?"

"Not that I am aware of, but even if he was then Mrs Harris - the maid - would usually know and respond with almost as much speed." I crossed my arms, as they continued to faff around with knocking,

"Don't you have a key for your home?"

"Of course not; Mycroft's household works on the same principle as Downing Street," Sherlock explained impatiently. He was peering through the window now, and carrying on his explanation, "There is always someone inside; the door doesn't open from the outside." Mycroft nodded and turned to me,

"It prevents the risk that someone may gain access to a key, and break into my home. I'm an important man John, I cannot even entertain the possibility."

"Well, someone's gotten in," Sherlock said over his shoulder. He dropped to his knees to peer through the letterboc, "We need to find out what's going on in there-" He sniffed the letterbox suspiciously, "Yes, it's just as I thought."

"What?" Mycroft dropped as well - surprising me by muddying his trousers - he must really be worried about Lestrade. His brow furrowed even more and he looked at Sherlock, "I cannot smell anything-"

"Of course you can't. Your sense of smell is dulled by your human nature-"

"You seem to be forgetting that you're human now, as well, Sherlock."

"I haven't forgotten actually, Mycroft, but I have had nearly two centuries to hone my already heightened senses. I recognise that smell; it was often used in the mental institution I was in, to sedate patients, and I remember it being used in the trenches as a quick anaesthetic." I was the one who guessed what he was thinking, and stared at him in alarm,

"Chloroform?" I asked, and received a nod from Sherlock. He got to his feet and turned to me to say,

"Someone's knocked them all out - apparently to keep the staff from interfering."

"No prize for guessing who," I said from Sherlock's side. "What are we going to do?" Sherlock looked over to Mycroft with a thoughtful look, apparently able to suppress the panic that I myself was feeling - worrying over Victor - so he could focus.

"I assume the door is bomb proof and the windows shatter-resistant?"

"Yes, you could drop anything less destructive than a nuclear bomb and have very little effect. All of these houses on this row have the most state of the art defence systems because they are home to some of the most important people in the world."

"Well, what are we going to do?" I asked Sherlock, who was staring up at the house and clearly trying to come up with a plan. "They could still be in there... doing God knows what to Victor and Lestrade," Sherlock shook his head,

"If it's Moriarty then I don't think there'll be a problem. He won't harm Victor... there's another motive here." My phone vibrated against my leg and I ignored it for the first time - as I watched Mycroft and Sherlock thinking up plans to get into an impenetrable fortress. But then it buzzed again, and again, and then it began to ring. Taking it out of my pocket, I watched Mrs Hudson's, then Sally's, then even Anderson's numbers flashing across the screen. Clearly they were trying to reach Sherlock as well, and eventually I fished the phone out his front pocket. He apparently hadn't even noticed it buzzing, nor did he notice my hand down the front of his blazer, because he was staring intently up at the roof - formulating a plan. The second I answered the call, Sally was shouting,

"Sherlock, Arthur's gone! I don't know what happened! I came home from the shops, I knew I shouldn't leave him but he's been doing so well, but then he wasn't there and-"

"Woah, Sally, calm down! Take a breath, it's John, what happened?"

"I went out to get some food, Arthur's been doing well recently. Sherlock said so the other day; he's as intelligent as Anderson, and he actually meant it as meaning Arthur's pretty much normal now. I thought it would be fine if he was left alone; he doesn't injure himself anymore or panic when I leave - he's like an adult now. But then, when I got home, he'd just run off! He never leaves the flat without me John, he knows not to, and I don't know where he is!"

I could hear the tears behind her words and I knew in that second that despite everything she'd fallen in love with him. We'd seen it in the past two months since Annabelle's arrival. The visits from the therapist had meant he come on in leaps and bounds; he seemed like a slightly over-excitable and child-like but essentially normal adult now and we could see the way they looked at each other. I knew that he wouldn't run off without letting her know what had happened - he was too sensible for that now.

"I'll talk to Sherlock - he might have some ideas. I'm afraid I'm going to have to hang up. We're dealing with a crisis here as well. Is there anyone with you at the moment?"

"No, it's just me-" I nodded, even though she couldn't hear me,

"Have you let anyone else know what's happened?"

"I phoned Anderson, and told him to go out looking for Arthur in the places we usually go to together."

"Okay, well phone him and ask him to come keep you company, he's most likely just gone off for a walk and not realised how much you'd worr. Sit tight and when we've resolved this crisis we'll come see you."

"Okay, thank you John."

"You're welcome." I ended the call as Mycroft turned away from his problem solving over his house to ask,

"Arthur's missing?"

"Yes, apparently he just up and left when Sally was out shopping."

"That's not like him."

"No, it's no- how did you know that? You've never met him before," the look on his face was enough to speak a thousand words, "oh for God's sake, are you spying on all of us? Don't you have work to do? I mean you run a country, how do you have time to keep tabs on everyone in your life?"

"I am not spying. I am keeping track of you for your own safety."

"Fine, babysitting... wait could you get the CCTV tapes for Arthur, and tell Sally where he is then?" Mycroft frowned,

"I can try, but I do not follow him as closely as my family. I cannot imagine that I will be able to tell you much, except for the vage direction he went in when he left. However, I will say one thing, after the change in their relationship last week, I do not think that he will be running away for good anytime soon."

"Change in relationship? What do you- oh. They're together?"

"It seems Miss Donovan finds his good looks and fun personality quite enjoyable. I imagine there will be considerable changes in the coming months."

"What because he's becoming more intelligent?"

"That is one reason," he conceded. I frowned at his evasiveness,

"And the other?" He didn't respond to that, so I focused on my buzzing mobile. Mrs Hudson's number flashed up on the screen and I picked up in an instant, "What's happened?"

"Annabelle's gone; we were getting ready to have dinner together and she got a message on her phone. She ignored it at first, but when I went I came back from the bathroom she was gone. I don't know who it could be from," she fretted - she was practically sobbing. "She only knows a few people and if she's not with you, Sherlock, Mycroft or Gregory then I don't know where she could be-"

"Have you checked downstairs? She could be with Ben and Emily; aren't they good friends?"

"They're not there either! Their door was opened and looked like there had been a scuffle. I'm so worried, John; I called Sally and she said that Arthur was gone as wel. I think someone's taking Sherlock's creations – or luring them in – and I don't know what to do!" That sentence set alarm bells ringing in my brain,

"I'll have to call you back, Mrs Hudson, I need to talk to Sherlock." She tried to say something but I had already hung up. I turned to talk to Sherlock, who was fiddling with the drainpipe, "All of your creations are gone, Sherlock." His head snapped up, finally paying attention to my conversations,

"What?"

"Annabelle, Emily, Ben and Arthur; they all just got up and disappeared! Which means that-"

"Whoever used that chloroform knocked out Mycroft's household did so to get access to Victor, and they're going to take him... or they've taken him already. Mycroft, didn't you just redecorate your bedroom?"

"Yes, but I hardly see how that's- oh yes, the fireplace! We unblocked it-"

"Excellent, or I would be doing even more damage than originally planned."

It took only enough time for him to finish saying that and then Sherlock was shimmying up the drainpipe, coat tails swishing around his waggling bottom hald, as he pushed himself upwards with difficulty. I cringed as the lead piping creaked and groaned, and I shouted over and over for him to be careful. I was terrified that the pipe would come away and send him to the ground, and I would lose my son and Sherlock in the same day.

But, after what seemed an eternity, Sherlock's torso was planted on the roof - his feet still dangling over the edge. He scrambled up and managed to knock a number roof tiles off, which fell to the ground and shattered around me and Mycroft - forcing us to dance out of the way - before his entire body disappeared over the roof.

**AN. Someone asked that the new developments not be as depressing as the last sentence of the last chapter suggested. Unfortunately, as we can see already, bad stuff's about to go down. I'm sorry that I'm not more sorry, I'm just evil like that... I'll see you guys next chapter ;)**


	73. 2013 - A fatal decision

**AN. My apologies - this is the same chapter posted earlier, but with some edits. Nothing too noticeable.**

* * *

**2013 - A fatal decision**

**Sherlock POV**

I removed the narrow cap of the chimney without too much difficulty; ripping off the lead guttering made a surprisingly good weapon for smashing through the bricks on top - knocking off the narrowest part, and allowing me to slide feet first into the chimney. It was claustrophobic and suffocating. The kept soot flying up into my face with each breath out, or jumping down my throat when I tried to inhale, and every couple of seconds my clothes would get caught on the bricks, and I would panic that I was going to get stuck. Eventually, my feet dropped through into the wider gap of the empty fireplace and made contact with the wood of a freshly laid, but thankfully unlit, fire. I let out a sigh of relief and wiggled down further, landing with a thud in the fireplace.

Coughing through the soot, I stumbled into the room through the haze of soot I had disturbed. At any other time, I might have felt a bit smug about ruining Mycroft's expensive furniture and rug, which probably cost more than John's yearly salary, but my mind was on bigger things at the moment. There was no sign of anything untoward in here so I moved on - searching each room quickly and efficiently. I stopped to shake some of the unconscious staff littering the hallways - to see if I could wake them to give me some information - but they were all completely out of it. Finally,l I reached the drawing room and saw the clear signs of a forced intrusion.

And there was the most obvious sign of all in the middle of the room - a battered and bleeding Lestrade - lying face down on the rug,

"Lestrade! Get up, what happened?" His head rolled slightly over, but he didn't open his eyes - choosing to groan instead. I looked round the room wildly for any sign of Victor and found nothing but a slim laptop, which was open on the coffee table. I ran to look at it. I knew that it definitely wasn't Mycroft's or Lestrade's; Lestrade still had the old model he'd bought with his own money - he disliked Mycroft spending excessive amounts unnecessarily, and wanted to earn his own possessions. I knew it couldn't be Mycroft's because his never left his locked briefcase if he could help it - so the laptop had to have been left here by someone. That someone was most likely the assailant.

The screen was open to a blank video chat screen and, just as I reached it, it began to ring. I answered without question, and without thought as to who it might be because I already knew. I wouldn't miss the call for the world.

"Oh Sherlock, you are a dirty boy aren't you?" I stared at him for a minute and then realised he was referring to the fact I was covered head to toe in soot. I glared at him down the screen as I removed my ruined jacket and wiped my face,

"Where is he? Where are they?"

"You knew there would be consequences when you ran off with one of my creatures-"

"He was never yours! None of them were. You ruined them, Marie and Sebastian could have had a chance - a life - to go out into the world and live!"

"I ruined them? I am not the one who poisoned them with the thought that their feelings matter, or that they should learn to love and lower themselves to the status of human. You know, Sebastian was slightly adverse to what I wanted to do today; he didn't want to kill his own kind - he started to doubt me - didn't you Sebastian?" The camera shifted and there was my final creation. His rugged face was staring down the camera, cold and emotionless, and his entire posture screaming military - especially since he was clasping a sniper gun. Moriarty smiled up at him, "But tell him why you changed your mind."

"You killed my mate." I blinked in shock,

"What?"

"Marie, she was my mate-"

"You loved her?"

"No, but we were together. She was the last of my generation of creatures, all the others have been lost, she was the only one and we were going to expand our kind. You took that chance from us. So I will take someone from you-"

"Oh we won't just do that, will we Sebastian? Oh no, we're going to cull the poisoned creations - one by one. We lured them all to us with the thought that you were in danger, and they all love their creator so much that they instantly rushed to your aid. You taught them to love and that's going to be the death of them, or at least some of them."

"What are you going to do? You sick-"

"You're wasting time Sherlock! You only have thirty minutes to save them, from my judging that's..." He made a show of looking at his watch, before pouting pityingly up at me, "Just enough time to save three of them. You, John and Mycroft; you each save one of them, but you won't reach the other two before... kaboom. You'll have to pick your favourites, oh but then... if you pick your favourites then more people will die, choices! So many choices!"

"What are you talking about? Where are they?"

"Five creatures. Five bombs. Five different train lines. One sparsely filled, with nought but our victim, which is where you'll find your son. One with a fair few people but not a substantial amount, maybe two others would die, which is where you'll find that loveable idiot Arthur - who you've spent so much time helping. Then there's the slightly more occupied line with that teenage darling Annabelle, or the two busy train lines filled with hundreds of people - thousands even - and the seperated lovebirds. Who do you save?"

His face broke into a delighted look of satisfaction, as he saw my expression fall, and he asked vindictively, "So? Do you save the lovers, the ones who maybe you aren't as close to but who could go on to have a family and live happily ever after, and who would also save thousands of lives because all those thousands of commuters would live with them? Or the teenager whose life and happiness is paramount to your charming landlady? I doubt she would recover from losing the only family she's ever known. An old woman shouldn't be alone like that - especially not have that one glimpse of happiness. Or do you save your friend Arthur, the charming moron who you've dedicated so much time to, who you're so very fond of? Who's going to be a father in just a few months?"

"What?"

"Oh you didn't know; Sergeant Donovan is now very aware of how she feels for him, what with sleeping together a few weeks ago. She hasn't told you the good news yet... how will she feel when she finds out the father of her baby is dead, and that you could have saved him. Oh, and then there's Victor..." He pouted again, and his voice gained a taunting babyish lisp, "sweet little baby Victor. Of course you want to save your son... but wouldn't that be selfish? If he dies then no-one else dies with him... but if the others die? Well, then the death toll would be in the thousands-"

"I don't care," I growled. That choice, at least, was painstakingly simple, "My son is worth a thousand souls in my eyes."

"We'll see. Let's see how you choose to balance the number of deaths against the relationship you hold with the victim. Come on, Sherly, it'll be fun! You'll find I've placed trackers on each of them. You'll be able to get to them easily enough - since the locations are being sent to all of your phones' maps - but I'm only going to let you, John and Mycroft join the game. I'll be watching all of you; your creations have been told that if they move then my people will know and detonate the bombs. As soon as three bombs are defused by your arrival the other two will detonate. If any of Mycroft's men deploy, I detonate every bomb and they all die - along with all the people around them. It's your choice, but you had better make it quick."

I shot one last look at Lestrade. I felt a small amount of guilt for leaving him bleeding on the floor, but there was no time to help him. Someone would wake up soon and tend to him, but I had to get to Victor. I rushed out of the room, down the corridor and slammed through the front door - making John and Mycroft jump out of their skins. I took one look at them before I turned, and gestured for them to follow me in my race towards the nearest underground station. John followed with ease, his fitness was always quite good to enable him to keep pace with me on cases, but Mycroft's sedentary office lifestyle and hatred of leg work definitely showed in his wheezing,

"We won't be able to check once we're underground, so we need to get the locations right and pick the right stops. On your phones, you'll find a link to a phone tracker, they'll lead you to the others-"

"Just like that?"

"No... we..." I closed my eyes at the weight of what I was about to say. I breathedd in deeply to brace myself, "we have to make a choice. Now, and we only have a couple of minutes to make it, or it'll be too late." John looked at me, hearing the way my voice caught in my throat and instantly looking anxious, "Moriarty's playing with me, he wants to test... I think he wants to test the strength of one of my kind's love, and I know that he wants to punish me. They're strapped into bombs-"

John's face instantly turned whiter than I had ever seen it, as the blood drained out of his cheeks, "He has them circling around the underground. We can save Victor and Arthur and Annabelle with minimal loss of life, but then we would leave Emily and Ben in crowded trains and thousands could die. Or we save those thousands of people and can only save one of the others."

John ran a weary hand over his increasingly pale face before saying what we were all thinking, but sounding incredibly guilty as he said it,

"I'm sorry, but I'm just going to say this - I know you feel the same Sherlock. We have to save Victor." I nodded, but then winced as I admitted the next issue,

"But... Arthur's going to be a father-"

"What?"

"Sally's pregnant. If he dies then we are depriving an unborn baby of its father... and think of poor Mrs Hudson. If she loses Annabelle... it would equate to us losing Victor. She's the only child Mrs Hudson's ever had, the child she's wanted ever since she got married nearly sixty years ago, and to lose her would be devastating."

"To lose any of them would be devastating! How do we chose? How can we _possibly_ chose? It's picking favourites and shooting the losers!" My phone buzzed again and I picked up without even glancing at the screen, expecting it to be Moriarty taunting me and telling me to get moving, but it wasn't.

It was someone to help me make my decision: Victor, Arthur, Annabelle, Ben or Emily.

How could I possible make that choice?

"Sherlock, are you there?"

"I'm here-"

"I'm sorry."

* * *

**AN. Predictions anyone? Who do you think's on the other end? Who do you thinks going to die... or not die... will everyone die (Moriarty may be tricking them) or will I show mercy and give Sherlock a way to save them all? And... are you all going be wanting to throw things at me again? I hope so because that means I'm doing my job.**


	74. 2013 - A phone call from Hell

**AN. I might be evil, but at least I don't keep you guys waiting after my cliffhangers (*cough* _Moffat_ *cough*)! That may be my one redeeming feature at the moment.**

* * *

**2013 - A phone call from Hell**

**Sherlock POV**

"Emily, you can't ring me-" How was she ringing me anyway? Wasn't she on the underground? How did she have signal?

"I know... just be quiet for a second. I only have a couple of minutes. The man who strapped me in said if I move, I have two minutes to get back to position. Well, I moved."

"Then get back! Emily, we're still making the decision-"

"What decision? Sherlock, you're going to save Victor. Don't even pretend otherwise. And you have to save Arthur and Annabelle because Mrs Hudson and Sally need them, and you adore them-"

"I love you two as well, Emily-"

"I know you do, but it's different. You would hardly think of saving the others over us, if more people wouldn't die because of it."

"Emily, that's not true-" She stopped me, and her voice was low and collected.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock."

"What- what are you talking about?"

"We fell into the trap, and you have to make this terrible choice about who to save... at least I hope it's not too easy for you-" I chuckled, though I knew she could hear how choked it was,

"No, of course not." I could almost hear her smiling on the other end,

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. We love you Sherlock - all of us do. You're our father, our friend, our guardian and our teacher, and we're so sorry for what we're about to do." Alarm bells were ringing in my head, and John and Mycroft looked like they were panicking at my side - the distraction meaning we had less and less time to make the decision. I waved them off, and asked her,

"What are you doing?" She took a deep breath, and I could hear the sound of glass smashing on the other end. For a second, I feared that it was the sound of the bombs detonating, but I could still hear her breathing, "What was that? Emily?"

"We're taking the decision out of your hands."

"What do you mean?"

"You have to save the others; I spoke to Ben and he's agrees with me. He knows that it's the best decision."

"What is-?" The realisation struck me, and I knew exactly what that noise had been and what they were about to do, "No, Emily! No, you _can't _do that!"

"I'm sorry Sherlock but this way... all these people live, the thousands of people on our trains don't die and the others survive - and you get to live with the knowledge that you didn't pick. That you had no choice; you weren't the reason for anyone's death."

John was pulling on my sleeve as he realised that I was beginning to tear up, and he looked terrified as he mouthed 'what's going on?' but I had to shake him off again because Emily was still speaking, "it's better this way. We're doing it together; we couldn't let you save one of us and not the other. I love him too much. To think of going more than ten seconds on my own is excrutiating, so we're doing this together. I think you know what's about to happen-"

"I do," I said at last speaking their plans out loud, for John and Mycroft's benefit as well as my own, "The two of you have high jacked the backs of our trains, where the driver would usually sit, and you've hacked the communication system to allow you to speak to me. In just a few seconds, you're going to jump out the back - through the back of the glass. The explosion is contained to the tunnel, you die but no-one on the train has to-" John and Mycroft looked appalled, and I couldn't contain my own despair, "Emily, you can't do that-"

"It's for the best," she was crying now, too, and I didn't blame her. She drew in a deep, calming breath, and I could hear the sound of the wind in the tunnel whistling around her. She must have climbed up onto the controllers in preparation, "It's the only choice, and you know it. We both go and you can save the others. No-one has to die today."

"But _you_ will!"

"And I'll die knowing you loved us, and knowing that I'll see Ben soon. He can hear me, he's listening through the system as well. I love him so much and he loves me, we can't go on without each other, and we now know much you care. Goodbye Sherlock-"

"No! Emily, Ben, stop! Stop!"

There was no response.

Just static.

John asked solemnly at my side, already knowing the answer,

"They jumped out of the train, didn't they?" I nodded, "They saved the others, and all of those people on the train who will probably never know what they did for them."

"Never let it be said we aren't human because, after what they just did, I don't think they can be described as anything else. Except, they are... they w_ere_ better. I don't think many people could have the courage to sacrifice themselves like that - nor the inclination. They were selfless and they loved us,and that's why they did it. They were human just like you and Mycroft." I collapsed, my knees buckling with the grief, and John caught me in his arms to fall with me. His arms wrapped around me, holding my close to him as we both felt the tears come. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up at Mycroft, who said quietly,

"And just like _you,_ Sherlock, which is why it hurts so much." We stood in silence for a few seconds, thinking about what had happened, and then the moment passed and we knew we had to get started on finding and saving the other three. Mycroft, who was least affected by the events that had transpired, started the planning, and said thoughtfully,

"The explosions will have stopped all of the trains - a bombing on the underground tends to do that. I'll go talk to whoever I need to, so I can ensure that Victor, Annabelle and Arthur are all escorted off the trains without panicking the others on the carriage, and without detonating the bombs. Do you think that now Moriarty has what he wanted he'll leave us all alone now?"

"Oh yes, he got to prove that humans are weaker than his kind... that we are now weak. We love too much and it makes us vulnerable. He showed us how painful it is, and how we were fools for becoming human, and not only that but he got his revenge against me - for ruining his creations, for running away from the lab and for taking Victor."

John helped me to my feet and, as soon as I was steady enough, I pushed away from him and began making my own plans, "John go and look after Victor, I have business to attend to-"

"No, Sherlock! Come back here, what are you doing? Where are you going?" I was gone, running off down the street, before he could stop me. I knew exactly where I would find Moriarty and I ran my fingertips over the smooth metal of the gun that I had pickpocketed from John just a few seconds earlier - as he held me.

This would all end today; I wouldn't let him hurt us like this ever again. In the other pocket, I gently took hold of my phone. I had one other call to make - to a number that had been saved into Marie's phone - but then I would deal with Moriarty.

One of the two ancient creatures on this earth was going to die today.

* * *

**AN. In answers to questions; yes, I did indeed learn my writing from Moffat and Gatiss. I like to think that I have Moffat's love of causing suffering, and Gatiss' general evil/violent/murderous side. I'm surprisingly proud of that fact. Let me know what you guys think, and I'll be updating soon with (possibly) the last chapter.**


	75. 2013 - The final showdown

**2013 - The final showdown**

**Sherlock POV**

They say that all roads lead to Rome. Well, for me, Rome will always be my past; no matter how much I attempted to look to the future the past will always be there - stalking me and pulling me back over and over again. My roads seemed to be joint in a figure of eight. Every time I thought I was turning a corner it just brought me straight back to the start. But perhaps I was going to break off of that road soon, and build myself a new path, because there was only one thing holding me back now and that was Moriarty. He was somewhere inside the vast factory that lay before me - both of us waiting for this to end. I drew in a deep breath, calming myself, before pushing through the door and starting my walk towards our grand finale.

My life had come to revolve around John, and my creations. They were my greatest achievements - forget all of those impossible cases that I solved. Today I had suffered the loss of two of them; they had only been born a few months ago, and they should have had such much more time. To be together, to learn, to love, and to have a family. That had all been taken away from them and now here I was - back at their birthplace.

For a split second, I entertained the thought of returning to that work. I dreamt of finding a way to replace them - by creating their doppelgangers - but even in my grief induced insanity I knew that wouldn't work. There had been only one Emmeline and Benedict and to make them again would be an insult to their memory. The two new creatures wouldn't be real; they would be shadows of something perfect. They wouldn't be the loving creatures, the first to deliberately escape from Moriarty's clutches because they fell in love; they should have had so much more time, together, a future and a family born from that love and Moriarty _stole_ that from them.

I journeyed on, past the little room that had once been my home for over six months and getting ever closer to the laboratory where this new part of my life had begun; towards the lab where Victor, Arthur, Annabelle, Benedict and Emmeline had all been given life, and where this would all end. I knew he would be waiting for me - we both knew that this clash would be out last. I was no longer going to be stalked by this shadow. It would be over. Even if I had to shoot him a hundred times in the chest and burn the evil thoughts right out of his heads, I would end this once and for all.

He was watching the door as it opened, a smile growing - thin lipped and humourless - on his reptilian face. When he spoke, it was as if to an old friend or a distant family member - rather than an eternal enemy.

"Ah, Sherlock, it's been such a long time, old friend."

"Yes, ever since I ran away from you with your favourite creation-"

"Victor wasn't my favourite. Sebastian is-"

"He is now. But you coveted the child like none of the others because he was younger and more broken. He had more potential than any of the others; you wanted to imprint yourself onto him and I stole that opportunity from you. That's why you chose to focus so much on the others... but then I stole them too."

"You didn't steal Marie or Sebastian; in fact, you murdered Marie in cold-blood. How does that feel Sherlock? Not to have that age old defence you cowered behind in your old life; you can't say it was an accident anymore. You knew exactly what you were doing when you tied her down to that chair and fried her, caused her intolerable pain, for the _greater good_. You lowered yourself to my level that day, Sherlock; you don't have your moral high ground anymore."

"I never did. Not really." His smile grew even wider,

"But it must have hurt you, Sherlock, to kill her; frightened you even."

"Don't be ridiculous, why would that frighten me?"

"Because you _exterminated_ her, for what she was. You put her down like nothing more than an animal. And you know that given half a chance, the majority of the people on the street would do the same to you because they think that you're like her - wrong, and dangerous. You see the whispering and the looks. You're the omni-observant Sherlock Holmes, so of course you see them all. When you killed Marie you were one of those frightened masses - killing that what you believed was wrong. What was it like to get a glimpse at what _your_ life could be like? Of how it will feel for you as they kill you, put you through unimaginable pain for just being who you are."

"I did what I know is right. I don't regret it."

"No, I don't expect you to. What I expect is that you regret leaving them here in the first place; you abandoned them in favour of Victor and now three of your creations are dead, weighing on your conscience, and one more - my Sebastian - is due to hit the chopping block for the same reasons as Marie. If you had stayed they would all still be alive. Now, we're an endangered species Sherlock. We're falling like flies."

"No, that's where your wrong. You and I, we aren't the same. We may come from the old generation - the original creatures, the ancient kind - but we aren't the same. You could never understand something that is such a part of me, of my life and my soul, and that's what makes us different. And that's also what separates our generation from the new.

"They have a chance; they don't have to fight for this because people _care _about them, and people recognise the importance of helping them. Nobody ever tried to help you or me. I found a way to make it work, I found love and family and friends, so it didn't matter that they never tried, but you? You never could and that's why _you're_ the endangered species and _you're_ about to go extinct, whilst we're just going to go from strengths to strengths. We're together, love makes us strong, and it makes us better. I can't let you threaten that again." I raised the gun, but he just giggled,

"Go ahead then. Shoot me, but know that Sebastian is out there. He's taken to the role of sniper very well, and if you kill me then John will be under the same threat as he was when we stood on their rooftop-"

"No, he's not." Moriarty frowned, apparently caught off guard, which was good because that meant it was all going to plan.

"Yes, of course he is. His gun is pointed at John as we speak-"

"Weren't you listening? Their generation is different; right from the very beginning they're not like you and I were. I made them better, I loved them and cherished them as I made them. Maybe they weren't perfect, but - from the second they were brought to life - there was more to them. Sebastian loved Marie, even if he didn't realise it, and when she died he was angry and hurt and he wanted to punish me... he accomplished that today. But he's not like you, he's not a one dimensional figure of hatred - unable to let go of his emotions and his desire to cause pain. He killed Ben and Emily, he got his revenge, and now he can relinquish that hatred. In fact, he already has."

Moriarty was actually looking surprisingly wrong-footed now - he had finally run out of tricks. His sleeve was empty, and I had just filled mine up. He looked at me, clearly suppressing any fear or confusion that wanted to play on his features. I had never seen him that way; it was the first time that he had ever not been three steps ahead of everyone else, even me.

"How do you know all this?" he asked. I smiled at him, holding up my phone.

"I made a phone-call before I came here; I spent ten minutes listening to his hatred and his sadness and then I helped him. I helped him to realise what he really needs now, and that's why I can see a little red dot on your chest, now." Moriarty looked down in shock and upon seeing the laser dancing over his shirt he looked up to the balcony - where Sebastian was stood with the gun rained on his leader's chest. His hands were shaking, and he looked reluctant, but we all knew that - when it came down to it - he was a cold blooded killer and his loyalty was not a strong enough emotion to override that. He was Moriarty's creature, and that meant that he couldn't love the man who had raised and taught him.

"Sebastian stop, you can't do this. I made you-"

"No, Sherlock made me. I might hate him for what he did to my mate but he's right. He made me and he made me better than what you think. Right from the start you tried to restrict us; you taught us that love is wrong and that humans are inferior. But then there was Marie... it didn't feel wrong, the way that I felt about her. I tried to refuse it but now I know it was love and I want to feel it again. I want to be a man, I don't want to be your puppet anymore, Jim. I'm sorry but I deserve better, and I'm going to take up Sherlock's offer to give me what you couldn't."

I nodded, and turned back to Jim,

"After we spoke, I made some other phone calls. I talked to one of John's old friends; they're going to enlist him for the army. He lost his love and subsequently his soul when Marie died... so he's a perfect soldier. He's close to indestructible, detached from the deaths and a trained sniper, he has you to thank for all of that. And both John and I know the benefits of an army life; of having the friends and the purpose that the army brings. It's only fair to him that he gets to accept my offer."

"Then he's a traitor and I'll punish him as well." I couldn't help but laugh slightly, and shake my head at his stubborn refusal to admit defeat. I almost admired it in him.

"Don't you see Jim, your web has been untangled. Right from the moment I left the lab, I was tracking down your men, weakening your empire, and now with the loss of your final creature... your empire falls. The super villain has been demoted to nothing more than a criminal and you have just two choices. Sebastian puts you out of your misery, a couple of shots through the brain and a small treatment will be enough to ensure you never wake up, or you can surrender and admit that you were wrong. You could open yourself up to emotion; maybe try to gain a soul of your own and lose that one-sided determination to do wrong. I could maybe make you someone to help, or you go out into the world and find your own-"

"Spare me the fluff, Sherlock; I will never love - you know that as well as I do. I am beyond redemption; I might be younger than you but I have never had a friend or a love or a family, and I never had any intentions to have any of them. And I never will."

"Then there's only one other option."

"Fine, then I leave with my dignity. The game's over. Sebastian, do you worst." I turned to look up at the balcony and the he nodded silently, before adjusting his shot. Gradually, the barrel got higher and the laser moved from Moriarty's chest to his forehead. It was as I turned away, and walked briskly towards the doors, that the silence was shattered by the sound of five gun shots and then the gentle thud of a body falling to the ground.

Then nothing.

It was over.

We had won.


	76. 2014 - Epilogue

**2014 - Epilogue**

**Sherlock POV**

The doorbell rung for the third and final day today. I could hear John out in the corridor talking to Mycroft and Lestrade, taking their coats and asking them to leave their shoes by the door - although Mycroft didn't need to be told. He'd grown up in this house; he knew my rules on not wearing shoes on the old wooden floors.

The door opened to reveal a grave, but still smiling, Lestrade. He was wearing his best suit and with his hair was clearly cut for the occasion. He was followed by Mycroft who was wearing a dark three-piece. My brother sat in the armchair across from me, with Lestrade leaning against the back, and John crossed to mirror the stance against my chair; Lestrade smiled at me,

"It's good to finally see you. I was getting a bit worried since you haven't been answering my phone calls all week." John rolled his eyes, standing up to hang their coats in the armoire,

"You honestly think he had any say in that? I took that phone off him the second he walked through that door; I finally convinced him to take that holiday we've been talking about for a year, I'm hardly going to let you disturb him." Lestrade shrugged,

"Still, we could have used the help; it's all been piling up slightly after you went away-"

"Well, I couldn't really get internet connection where I was." Lestrade shook his head,

"It's fine, but if you could take a look at our new cases-" I nodded in agreement, though I didn't want to talk about work today,

"Leave your laptop in the kitchen. I'll check the details and give you an answer when possible." He gave me a disapproving look,

"And how exactly will you know what my password is?"

"Well, you're rather predictable and I've never had any difficulty before. John, do want to have a stab at it first?" My partner grinned, leaning against the back of my armchair again,

"Is it _Charlie_, by any chance?" The look on his face told us we'd got it right first go, and I shot John an approving look,

"Okay fine. Shoot me for having my son's name as my password." I was fully aware of how smug I looked, but I foun myself not particularly caring, since they were both so clearly happy - Mycroft had even allowed a small smile to cross his features. John's fingers were gently weaving through my curls and I smiled slightly, and closed my eye at the soft touch, as my partner asked,

"Where is Charlie by the way?" Mycroft was the one to respond to the question this time,

"The nanny is taking him out for lunch and a movie; he appears to have developed an infatuation with the Hobbit. Is this their fourth time seeing it this week, Gregory?" His husband nodded with a fond smile. John frowned slightly, looking perplexed,

"That's weird - Victor's just the same. Every time Bilbo comes on the screen he shouts 'dad' but I really don't see the resemblance-"

"I wouldn't say you don't look similar to him," I said over a spluttering John. He proceeded to splutter even more at the statment,

"Which is your way of saying that I look like a short, hairy, chubby man who lives in a hole and has more meals a day than anyone should-"

"You're not _chubby_, John, and I actually happen to find Bilbo quite handsome - or at least the actor who plays him is." John's fingers wrapped themselves up in my curls thoughtfully, and he said grumpily,

"Yeah, well, why don't you just marry _him_ then?" I rolled my eyes, gently pulling John's fingers out of my hair so I could hold his hand instead, smiling up at him,

"Because we're already married, and I do believe there's a law against having multiple husbands." John huffed but I could see the smile rising up as he said,

"Well you didn't really want to marry me, though did you. Not like Mycroft and Greg. Honey, we need to get married so I can break into a gay guy crime ring is hardly the most romantic proposals." I debated for a second, wondering if I should just tell him the truth,

"There was never any gay guy crime ring." His jaw dropped open,

"What?"

"I just told you there was so we could get married as soon as possible - without all the fuss that Mrs Hudson would have made us put into it."

"So you lied to me?"

"I wanted to get married."

"Why didn't you just ask-" Mycroft interrupted from where the two of them had been watching our argument,

"I'm going to end this particular conversation now because today's not the day to bicker, no matter how harmlessly. Who else has arrived so far?"

"Everyone else is here. Mrs Hudson and Annabelle are unpacking in mummy's old bedroom and Arthur and Sally are in the guest room at the back of the house, since your old nursery is the only room with a crib, which means that the two of you will be in your old bedroom." Greg grinned brightly,

"Am I the first boy that Mycroft's ever had up there?" Mycroft might have flushed slightly at that,

"You're the only person that Mycroft's had up there. He almost managed to get a girl back to his room once upon a time, but unfortunately he scared her off." Greg grinned, eyes practically twinkling at the thought of going to Mycroft's childhood room with his husband, but I wasn't sure if it was just that he wanted to get a bit more insight into Mycroft as a teenager. John sat on the arm of my chair with a thoughtful look,

"I thought your mother never lived with you?" Mycroft took his attention off of his gleeful husband, and looked over to mine,

"She had a spare room that she slept in when I was a baby, in case Sherlock needed help in the night because – as John will probably be able to confirm - Sherlock isn't very easily stirred from his mind palace or his experiments to deal with a crying youngster."

"It doesn't make him any less of a good father though-"

"No, he was never a poor guardian. I was very lucky to have him." John must have noticed my eyebrows rising into my hairline, as he immediately questioned me about it, I reluctantly admitted,

"You always pick the oddest moments to compliment my parenting skills-"

"Is it really such a strange time? We're all here as a family, to be together and remember the good times, and many of those moments happened in this house - with you as my guardian - if I remember correctly." I nodded, smiling at the memories,

"Yes, I suppose now isn't such a strange time."

"As much as I always criticised you; I was hardly blameless. I was an intolerable child - constantly bitter and unhappy - but that wasn't your fault. I've come to realise that you raising me was the optimal situation - my father would not have been a good guardian. His wife loathed me and my half-siblings never accepted me. I doubt I would have had a loving childhood filled with the opportunities or kindness you provided me and the adoration that mummy gave us both. You made me who I am and I'm very grateful for that. A testament to your kindness lies in this very room." Mycroft reached up and took Lestrade's hand, where it had been resting on the armchair beside his head, in a small and rare display of affection - but a gesture of the utmost feeling that made me certain they would never be parted.

Mycroft looked at me, and the gratitude was visible in his eyes, "If you hadn't seen the signs, and told me all those years ago that it was alright to be who I really was - as we sat in these very seats - then I doubt Gregory would be here with me today. I imagine I would be in a loveless marriage to a shrewish woman in designer clothing, and I would have biological children that I never wanted. I would have no hope of escape and no brother because, if it hadn't been for Gregory's intervention, I wouldn't be a part of your life. And I would regret that until the day I died because you are my family, Sherlock. Not those strangers I went to live after I left this house. I hate that I didn't realise that fact for so long."

"Thank you Mycroft... not just for saying that, but for everything. I cannot imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn't gotten that letter from your mother. You were the first prolonged human contact that I had and you were the reason why I left my medical career, and eventually – after you left – you set off into my downwards spiral." He flinched slightly but I shook my head, "I'm grateful for that Mycroft, because that led me to Greg," the detective inspector smiled, but he didn't interrupt, "and that led you to your own happiness. I have never been so happy for you as I am now you have him and Charlie. And by finding Greg I had a new chance in life, a new career and then, through that path, John. All of you in the room, all of you in this house, have made my life more rewarding and filled with happiness and caring than I could ever have imagined in those early days when Victor first left me. I have found acceptance with you all and even though we came here on a sad day, we have all found what we need for happiness."

We sat for a minute, reflecting on that had been said and then quietly, his voice thick with emotion, John asked,

"Speaking of sadness - shall we get started?" I nodded, breathing in deeply to quieten my beating heart, and crossed to the mantelpiece,

"Greg, could you ask them all to meet us in the garden in a few minutes. Mycroft, and John, help me with these." They nodded solemnly, each picking up one of the smooth ceramic pots and looking down at them with mournful looks. They breathed in deeply as they held the smooth marble against the dark fabric of their clothes - holding them as if they would never let go. I nodded and, in silence, we carried them out to where the group had gathered on the tiny patio looking out over the fields and the forest behind the house. Sally was sat at the table, gently bouncing her grizzling daughter and looking up at Arthur reassuringly. He didn't even turn as we passed; he was just looking at his freshly polished shoes, unshed tears beginning to gather in his eyes as he let out a tiny, barely audible, sigh. Annabelle stood across from them, on the other side of the table, sniffling into a handkerchief with Mrs Hudson's arm gently tucking her into her side.

I felt the soft reassuring weight of a hand on my back and looked up at John; he gave me a tiny ghost of a smile and a nod, and the expression was mirrored by Mycroft on my other side. I took a deep breath, staring down at the weight of the marble in my hands, as Victor walked unsteadily to my side and wrapped a hand in the folds of my trousers. He was holding on so tight that I thought he would rip a hole in the fabric at any second. I smiled down at my son and then, releasing the breath, I looked up to address our tiny congregation. It seemed such an unfairly small collection when we were here to honour two people who had saved thousands of lives - at the expense of their own.

"I don't think any of you need me to tell you why we're here today, but I think I should say a few words anyway. Exactly one year ago today, we lost two of our friends, and we would have lost even more - if it hadn't been for their sacrifice. A year ago today, they proved to the world that our kind deserve to live and we are not inferior to people. They showed the world that we care and love just as deeply as any human, and we are willing to fight for that. They made an unimaginable sacrifice and they did it together - because they loved each other. I know that four of us here today; myself, Victor, Arthur and Annabelle, we didn't know if we ever be able to understand love and feel it so deeply for another. But as the rest of you know, we were proved wrong by not only those two but the arrival of all of you in our lives.

"I was blessed to know these two. They proved me wrong; they showed that any lingering doubts that I had had, and every misconception that I ever had about myself in the past, were wrong. They justified our existence, they won our kind peace and I know that they proved me wrong once more because I can say without a doubt that they are together now. I didn't believe in God, I still don't, and I didn't believe that you went anywhere after you die. If I had believed it then I would have said I didn't think our kind would be welcome... but they showed me that I was a fool because of course they're together somewhere, reunited and happy and in love. I It would be wrong for them to be otherwise. They deserve to be rewarded for their sacrifice and, knowing them, the only reward they would want is to be together.

"So I thank them; for proving me wrong, for teaching me, for being my friends and for caring about me, even though it wasn't for very long. And I also thank them because if they hadn't made that sacrifice, I don't know what would have happened. I cannot bear the thought of losing my son, or Mrs Hudson her daughter, or Sally her husband, and baby Emily might have lost her father before she was even born. But none of us lost those people who are paramount to their lives because of baby Emily's namesake, and the love of that woman's life. So, we were privileged to know them both." Mrs Hudson was sniffling into her handkerchief now, clinging to her equally distraught daughter, whilst I could see Sally and Arthur were tearing up as they stared at the urns in John and Mycroft's arms.

Only Lestrade was looking at the third and final urn, the one that I was holding. There was an unspoken question in his eyes. None of them actually knew who it belonged to, except for me and John,

"And now I suppose I should say a few words about the owner of _this_ urn." Their eyes all looked up at me in surpise, as if realising that there was indeed another urn, and I continued quietly, "These are the ashes that I have waited to hold for nearly one hundred and seventy years. In other words, ever since I made that perilous trip to the Artic. As you know, I went on a short trip a few months back, but I only told John where I was going. The truth is, I went on what I suppose you could call a pilgrimage; I returned to that spot where I left my father's remains years ago. I never thought that I wouldn't find him and I knew he wasn't there any more, not in the way I wanted him to be, but I still wanted to go there and show him what I have become. I've changed so much; I've proved him wrong about his creation, as my creations proved me wrong. Call it destiny, call it fate, but there he was. Mostly covered by snow, but almost completely preserved. So, with considerable difficulty - I brought it back to the UK and I arranged his cremation, and those are the ashes that you see before you.

"And what can I say about Victor? Not much, I will admit, he abandoned me when I was just a few minutes old, left me to my death and ran away. He was a coward and a heartless man... but he was also my father, a genius, and I could almost say a loving husband. He did after all try to save Elizabeth from me and he followed me to avenge her. He just never understood love. He had many faults but in his last few minutes I could say he repented. He apologised for the pain and tried to shoulder my burdens. It might have been due to madness, or exhaustion, or just the nearing of his death... but he showed me some kindness and I never forgot that. He was my father, he gave me life and he is the reason we all stand here today. He is the reason that Victor and my creations exist, that Mycroft was born, that baby Emily is here, and he is the reason the natural humans amongst us were brought together. So, forgetting his faults, I stand in front of his house, wearing one his suits and holding his ashes, and I say goodbye to him. We say goodbye to the three people we were able to call friends, and family, as we scatter their ashes."

Mycroft and John looked to me for confirmation and I nodded, all three of us beginning to slowly unscrew the tops. I began to think back to all of the memories of my father that I had clung to. They were few and far between, his presence in my life intermittent and his expression was never without pain or anger or fear, except that one proud moment when we met for the first time in the mountains. In that moment, he had been pleased with himself for his accomplishment, and I had revelled in that warm approval, I'd basked in it.

So, I had soaked up that moment and every moment that came before or after - regardless of how good or bad and I saved them all to think back upon now. They were hazed by age, only remembered after all these time because they had been constantly run through my head, and most were tainted by the sadness and pain he caused me, but - as I watched the wind catch the swirl of ashes and scatter them, tug them up over the grass, into the trees and over the stream - I felt it all dissipate. I finally had closure and that same feeling of relief and thankfulness, for the good memories, washed over me as I watched Ben's ashes dancing with Emily's. They were intertwining until I couldn't even see which urn they had come from. That was the way they were meant to be - together.

I was reminded of the hand on my back when John gently pressed against the reassuring weight, and whispered in my ear,

"I'm so proud of you." I realised that I was smiling through the tears and turned to pick up Victor, whispering to the silent group,

"Let's go inside."

It was as I walked into the home of so many happy memories, the home of my father and of Mycroft's childhood, the home that reminded me of mummy - and now of all of my friends and my new Victor clinging to my shirt - I felt renewed and I knew that it would only get better. I knew that this was what I was meant for. I belonged in this world and my pains, my trials and my tribulations no longer hurt because they had brought me here.

Finally, I was grateful to my father for creating me, and for the first time I was glad because I had the happiness and the love I had never thought I deserved.

And it was wonderful.

_**The End**_

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**AN. You have no idea how sad I was to write those last two words, but there they are :( I'd love it if you could take some time to review and let me know what you've thought of the story, and how it's ended, and to tell me if you've enjoyed this journey as much as I have.**

**I hope to see you all again one day with another story, but for now I shall have to say goodbye.**

**(N.B. A day after this crossover finished and Benedict's on the Graham Norton Show talking about Frankenstein and Sherlock... my brain is literally exploding with the sheer amazingness of that! I just like hearing about Frankenstein again because I loved the play... which is why this story exists)**


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